


Attach me to your world

by artisan447



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-3A, Underage Sex, baby spark!stiles, bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:42:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisan447/pseuds/artisan447
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out Stiles is magic. He's as surprised about that as anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm totally and completely fascinated by the concept of Stiles as a human spark, and what that will mean to his place in the pack, and his connection to Derek. Especially his connection to Derek. :) 
> 
> Many thanks to [dogeared](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared) for beta, in-progress hand-holding, and for grinning at me when I thought the first chapter was the whole story (clearly I know nothing!). Also, to [siria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria) for Latin/medieval advice, and story ideas -- you both made this so much richer than it otherwise would have been.
> 
> This story was written at the end of 3a so does not take into account any of the events of 3b. It's also my first fic in this fandom, so concrit is very welcome.

**Attach me to your world**

_"Tug on a single thing in nature, and find it attached to the rest of the world"_ \-- John Muir (somewhat mangled)

 

**Chapter 1**

 

_"I don't wanna open a can of worms and, I don't want any Spagetti-Ooooooooos."_

Stiles cranks up the volume and howls out the ending, grinning -- his howl rocks! He catches up with the last line of the chorus as he swings the Jeep into the driveway, _"I'm making monsters for my frie-"_ but cuts off the last word, because huh, the house is dark. 

He kills the volume and just sits there for a minute, still tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel while a chill runs down the back of his neck. It's Wednesday. His Dad should be home by now.

Monday/Tuesday short change, Wednesday early shift, Thursday/Friday both late -- he runs through it in his head. That's the roster for this week, right? So, Wednesday -- Dad should be home. 

Or, wait! Is it Thursday already? _Fuck!_ He scrubs a hand over his mouth in irritation, because who forgets what day it is? Deaton's been driving him like the sadistic bastard he is, filling his head with drills and exercises until he doesn't know what day--- 

Right, that explains that. He checks his watch, and can't decide if he's glad to see that it really IS Wednesday, or even more freaked, because the house is still dark and his Dad is _still not home_. 

The Jeep's lights reflect eerily off the dark windows of the house, and the way the engine ticks in the silence is just plain creepy.

"Okay, dude, calm the fuck down," he mutters out loud, because Deaton's always reminding him that words have power. Right now would be a good time for that to actually work. The calming down part, that is, because there's no need to freak out. Maybe his Dad's just working late. 

Right, like something that mundane is ever the answer. 

_FuckFuckFuck!_ Supernatural shit he can deal with (well, mostly he's just gotten good at swinging a bat and running away really fast), but this? His Dad not being exactly where he's supposed to be? Not so much with the dealing. 

The blank windows might as well be mocking him so he glares back, then squeezes his eyes shut tight, tight, tighter, until the house takes shape on the inside of his eyelids. And, yes, okay, maybe he is remembering that time when he was five and his mom made him shut his eyes and wish that the box holding his birthday present had a constructo set inside. But it worked then, right? So maybe it'll work now, and when he opens his eyes again the house will be all lit up and his Dad will be inside -- TV on, feet up on the coffee table, his toes poking out of those stupid old socks Stiles isn't allowed to throw away. There's nothing wrong with projecting things-of-the-good, is there?

He snaps his eyes open, and--- 

No dice, everything is still totally dark. 

Okay. It's no big deal, he's got this. It's just a quiet house. _His_ quiet house, there's nothing weird going on here. Except, duh! He ought to slap himself for even thinking that, because it's pretty much exactly what the hero always thinks right before a giant freaking Rancor tries to tear his head off! 

He scrubs a hand over his head, then scrambles over and locks the passenger door -- confidence is one thing, precautions are another -- and fumbles his phone out of his pocket. When he dials, it feels weirdly as though he's watching someone else's shaking finger hit speed dial 1.

The phone rings at the other end but the tone sounds hollow, as though it's echoing around the walls of an empty room. Jesus! Maybe if he jams it tighter against his ear, he might be able to shut out the sound of his own shaky breathing and ignore the fact that his heart is banging so hard it might be about to rabbit right out of his chest and onto the dash any minute. 

"C'mon, c'mon." He lets his forehead thunk down onto the steering wheel, holds on tight and tries to remember how to breathe. 

The steering wheel is solid under his head, and against his palm, so this is real, he's right here. It's totally different to the nightmares. He moves his hand and watches it smooth down his thigh, feels the rough denim texture of his jeans and listens to the ring tone at his ear. He can do this. His Dad is fine; he's going to pick up any second. Deaton's been teaching him to focus, so he centers his attention on the ring, just that one thing, tries to imagine he can hear past it to whatever's happening on the other end of the line, form a picture... 

The ringing stops with a sharp click and his eyes spring open, focus broken. It's disorienting to find that he's still sitting in the Jeep, so he squeezes his eyes shut again and listens intently, willing the right voice to answer.

"Hey, son. What's up?"

The breath whooshes out of his chest, relief making him giddy, so he sits up and lets his head fall back against the headrest because even with his eyes shut tight the Jeep seems to be spinning. 

"Dad," he croaks out the single word past the lump in his throat. But that's the best he can do before his mind completely blanks out with the relief of just hearing his Dad's voice. He clears his throat, grips the steering wheel hard with his free hand, and tries again: "Nothing's up," he manages in what even he knows is a totally unconvincing voice. "Everything's cool. How about you?"

For a long two seconds there's nothing but his own pounding heart beat filling the silence, then he hears his father's voice change, can picture him leaning forward in his chair, concentrating, because who needs werewolf senses? His Dad is 100% human and he can still tell what's going on with Stiles over the freaking telephone. He doesn't even have to _try_.

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

God, he has to do better than this. He sits up straighter, sucks in a deep breath and reaches down deep to find something carefree to force into his voice. 

"Hey, no, I'm good. Everything's fine. Cool as a cucumber, daddy-o!" 

And, okay, maybe that is laying it on a bit thick. But he _is_ cool. There's no reason to worry. His Dad is at work. He's 100% okay. Everything is FINE.

"Oh-kay," his Dad drawls. "So, you called just to say hi, then?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I thought you'd be home by now, but maybe I forgot your roster? Because you're there, right? Working? Must have mixed up the days, thought the late shift was Thursday, or something."

He's cringing as he finishes, because his Dad is SO going to know that's bullshit. He knows how much of a thing Stiles has about knowing where his Dad is, and has done since life taught him that parents aren't invincible. His Dad's roster is indelibly stamped on his brain. He _never_ forgets.

"Stiles?"

"No, Dad. Seriously---" he cuts himself off, because this is stupid. _He's_ stupid, and if he doesn't get himself under control right now, his Dad's going to charge over to check things out for himself, and that's the whole point of everything, right? To make sure his Dad doesn't worry more than he needs to, and lives to an old, old age? 

"Everything's fine. I just--- I've been with Scott," he crosses his fingers through the lie because he's still not quite ready to tell anyone exactly how much time he's spending working with Deaton, "and I just got home and the house is dark. And I'm still in the Jeep so I didn't get in yet to check the schedule on the fridge. But you're okay, right? You're just working?" 

"You didn't check your messages, did you?" his Dad says, and he sounds a lot calmer, a little resigned and maybe just a bit fond.

"Ahhh, no?" 

That much at least is true. Scott's ongoing, sickly-cute picspam of the clinic's latest litter of puppies is freaking-un-bearable, so he doesn't even check when a message comes in any more. 

"I'm okay, son. Andie's daughter broke her arm, so I'm working a double. County can't get a reliever here until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest so I'll need to pick up the early shift, too. Melissa said you can go over there if you want." And okay, he's pretty sure he said he was 'with' Scott, not 'at' Scott's so it won't matter that he didn't know that.

"Right. No. Must have missed the message. But it's totally cool, Dad. I'm heading inside now to make some dinner. Honestly, I'll be hitting the sack early, too. It's been a day." He lets his head thunk down against the steering wheel again because -- lame, totally lame.

But his Dad must be feeling generous because he just says: "Okay," and, "everything's quiet, here," and then "you'll call me if you need anything, right?" 

And for a minute it doesn't matter that he's still sitting in his car, slumped over the steering wheel, phone pressed tight against his ear, because his Dad's voice is apparently some sort of Stiles-nip and his heart-rate finally slows to something resembling normal.

"Sure, Dad, but everything's fine. Say hi to Andie for me," he manages. 

Hopefully no-one's counting how many times he's said 'fine' in the space of the last five minutes, and it has to count for something that he finally remembers Andie is the new Deputy he met when he took in lunch on Monday.

"Will do. You get your homework done and make sure you're asleep when I get home."

"Dad, c'mon! It's summer break. No homework!" he protests, just to make them both feel better, and okay, that works -- there's an audible chuckle as the call disconnects.

Right, well, that was maybe a little bit embarrassing. He sits up again and checks his phone at the same time as he undoes his seatbelt, and yep, there it is, 4.46 pm, message from Dad. Also, two missed calls from Melissa, and at least a dozen texts from Scott. Which, to be fair, is only half the volume he was getting a week ago, so maybe his 'dude, get a life' lecture had some effect, after all.

He rolls his eyes and is half way out of the car before he realizes there's someone standing in the shadow of the fence, about three steps away from the Jeep.

"Holy--- !" He manages to keep hold of the phone as his heart rate spikes, but his keys hit the ground with a clunk. The sound that claws up out of his throat chokes off into a strangled shriek as he recognizes the looming shape as Derek.

"Dude! Are you trying to kill me?" he gasps. "Did you literally spring up out of the cement?"

"Hi Stiles, nice to see you, too," Derek deadpans, and even in the semi-dark Stiles can see the sardonic lift of one eyebrow. 

Rii-ght. Nice to see nothing's changed, Derek's still the shithead he's always been. And the fact that it's been three long weeks since there's been anything at all of Derek to be seen? Well, he's not bitter about that at all. Okay, maybe he is. Just a bit. And he has cause, because random phone check-ins here and there don't count for squat.

"You're right, that was totally out of line as a greeting." He deliberately settles his face into a fake smile, laces his voice with sarcasm. "Derek. Welcome home. It's nice to see you."

He doesn't wait for a response, just turns and picks up his keys, drags his backpack out of the passenger seat, then heads for the house, trying not to listen for the sound of Derek following. 

And that would be Derek-freaking-Hale, who upped and left with hardly a word and is apparently now back; also, without a word. Derek, who's right behind him as he opens the door, who follows him inside and looms silently while he flicks on the lights to the front room, the front porch, and then to the side, hall and upstairs landing (yes, fine, maybe he is overcompensating just a bit).

Derek, who looks at him intently and asks in a soft voice filled with concern: "Is everything okay?" Because of course he can hear Stiles' heart race, and would have heard at least one side of the conversation in the car.

Stiles drops his bag to the floor, blinks slowly and forces the remaining tension out of his body on a long exhale.

"Yes," he says, trying for casual, because the last three weeks have sucked, and he's missed Derek something fierce, and he'll be damned if he'll admit that. "Yes, everything is okay. Everything is just dandy."

"Stiles." This time Derek does, actually, roll his eyes. 

"Okay, okay," he concedes, because Derek is a persistent asshole and a half-truth is better than a straight up lie, right? "Bit of a rough day, didn't know where Dad was for a minute there, got scared out of my wits in my own driveway just now. You know--" he spreads his arms wide, "--business as usual, really." 

"I wasn't trying to scare you," Derek glowers, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. 

Right, because there's nothing at all weird about showing up out of the blue and spooking a person when they're totally unprepared. 

"No, I know. It's just that the creeper thing comes so naturally to you, right?"

"Stiles---" Derek huffs out, and he sounds annoyed, like he's the only one who's had shit to deal with lately. 

"No, you know what?" he interrupts, because he's had enough. He's tired, he has a headache, and this whole thing of people thinking they can force understanding into his head just by saying his name 47 different ways -- he's over it. 

"You can't go just, just -- appearing like that!" He's pacing now because if he doesn't move he's going to explode. "Because it makes people nervous. It makes _me_ nervous, to say nothing of what it's going to do to my Dad. See, there's this thing you need to know about law enforcement. Those guys don't let things go! Which means my Dad, who I was just speaking to, by the way --" he holds up his phone to illustrate because visual cues are good, "-- is going to be watching you like a hawk, especially now that he knows about the werewolfitude." He wiggles his fingers to reinforce the fang-ness that's inevitable. "And there's no way you want to ramp that up to actual surveillance. Trust me, plenty of personal experience to go by, here." 

He winds up on the other side of the kitchen from Derek, which he's glad about, because he wasn't kidding about Derek making him nervous. Just like he always has. And not in the danger-fierce-werewolf-might-eat-you kind of way. No, that would be nervous in the incredibly-attracted-to-his-werewolf-ass kind of way. 

Which is something he is _never_ going to put into words despite his suspicion that the owner of said very fine werewolf ass knows exactly where he stands.

"So. Any-waaay. You left and now you're back. Go you," he finishes, two thumbs up.

Derek frowns -- maybe he's forgotten that this is how Stiles communicates -- and then his brow smoothes out and he says, "You're angry." As though he's proud of his sudden intuition.

Which, oh my god, YES! He's freaking angry. _Fuck!_ Why is he angry?

"No, I'm not," he denies, feeling self-conscious. "I'm just tired." 

It's true, but Derek is looking at him as though he's a foreign species, and come on -- what is it about 'tired' that's so hard to understand?

"I had to take care of Cora," Derek explains, as though it pains him to be so obvious.

"I know." 

He does know. That that's why Derek left. And maybe he's just angry because five minutes ago he was mentally preparing for who-knows-what and he's still amped. It's like a sugar high, only without the pleasure of the syrup-soaked pancakes getting him there. 

Or maybe it's something else.

"I told you what I was doing," Derek repeats, frowning. "I stood right here, in this kitchen, and told you." 

That's probably true, but Stiles' memory of it happening is blurry, and the fact that Derek is obviously judging him for it is really irritating. 

"I had a concussion," he snaps, without thinking. "You told me Cora wanted to go to the pack in Sonora. You didn't say she was waiting in the car and you were leaving right that second!"

"I thought it was implied," Derek shrugs.

"Implied? Derek -- I spent most of the next two days at the hospital with Dad and Melissa because, hey! It turns out that magically healing wounds don't stay healed when the supernatural power that healed them ceases to be! I didn't even know you'd gone until you phoned from Sacramento!" 

"I didn't want---" Derek trails off and looks away. "I'm sorry," he says, eventually, looking genuinely confused to have caused Stiles to worry. Or maybe it's because he apologized. Either way, he's ridiculous.

"I know," Stiles says, deflating, because now that Derek's here he remembers that this is just the way he is. Trying to get it through Derek's thick head that other people care about him has always been a lost cause. "I get that you needed to be there for Cora. I just--- Never mind, it doesn't matter." 

It does matter, though. It matters a whole hell of a lot. But just now he doesn't have the energy to argue about it. Unfortunately, Derek's one-track mind isn't so easily diverted.

"Look, what did you want me to do?" he persist. "What if it was your Dad at risk? Wouldn't you do everything you could to keep him away from danger?"

"My Dad _is_ at risk, Derek. Right now! And so am I. But we started this, all of us. Whatever 'this' is. We can't just abandon everyone who lives in this town. We're not going anywhere."

"Neither am I." Derek folds his arms over his chest again, and he has the hide to look insulted. God, he can be such a shit sometimes!

"Oh, right. That's just great. Shift your sister to god-only-knows where and then come back to babysit the rest of us. Thank you for that incredible condescension, your royal wolfness!" Stiles yells.

He's not sure what kind of response he's expecting, but it's not for Derek to just blink slowly and not say a word. He just stands there with his stupid stubble and his stupider rumpled clothes and lets Stiles shout at him. To make things worse, his face has finally softened into understanding, as though there's actually something about this ridiculous situation that makes sense to him. The silence draws out until it's obvious that Derek's not going to say anything more, until Stiles is done. 

_Fuck!_ He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and grabs hold of his hair, tugging it hard. He can't decide if he's more irritated at Derek or himself, because he's shouting at a man -- wolf, whatever -- who hasn't even been here for three weeks, about -- he doesn't even know what. That has to be some kind of record for mouthing off, even for him. He thinks about it for a minute, then looks at Derek again. _Really_ looks at him. 

Scott said once, that since he was turned he doesn't really get tired. As long as he eats enough to keep his new super-metabolism running, he can keep going long enough to make even Batman jealous. Which, by the way, is a complete and total lie. Scott might not fall asleep as fast or inconveniently as Stiles can, but he's no Batman. Anyway. Now that he's paying attention, he can see that Derek actually looks drained, bone-weary; with the sort of tiredness that comes from too much worry, and long hours of driving and exceedingly crappy coffee.

It's not Derek's fault that Stiles has missed him every stupid minute of every stupid day. That he's organized his entire life around the possibility that Derek might call. He doesn't blame Derek for wanting to protect his family first. For leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves when they (Stiles) had wanted nothing more than to hold everyone he cares about close. 

Except for how he really, really has been blaming him. 

He feels like a dick.

Derek opens his mouth to speak again but Stiles holds up a hand. "No," he says, and turns away. "Give me a minute." 

One thing he does know is that this is the third day in a row that Deaton's had him channeling energy, and he can still feel the residual power running under his skin like a million tiny ants. Maybe that's why he's so anxious and jittery? Whatever, it doesn't really matter, because Derek is here, standing in his kitchen, and considering he has almost no memory of the last time that happened, he'd kind of like to enjoy it while it lasts.

He turns to the fridge and sticks his head inside, hoping that will at least cool down his flaming face. God, he's such an _idiot_. He rummages around aimlessly until his hand lands on the juice, so he grabs it and straightens up as though that was his plan all along. 

He didn't factor in Derek Hale, though, and he really should know to do that by now.

"I'm sorry I had to leave," Derek says gently from right behind his left shoulder, and of course he knows exactly why Stiles is so tied up in knots.

He squawks and loses his grip on the juice, and is eternally grateful that the cap is on tight when it hits the ground and bounces. 

"Dude! Come on!"

Derek just shrugs, and holy shit, is that a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth? Bastard totally did that on purpose.

"Oh, I see how this goes," Stiles says, holding back a relieved smile of his own. He picks up the carton and grabs two glasses. "You leave, hardly telling anyone where you're going, and then three weeks later, bam! You show up out of the blue like a freaking apparition. So now this is the bit where you toy with the weak, squishy human, right? Well, before you go too far down that path, you should know I haven't exactly been slacking off the last three weeks."

Derek moves with him to the counter then takes the carton from him and fills the glasses; pushes one over.

"I know," he says.

Which, huh. "You do?"

"You mentioned it when I phoned. Deaton told me the rest."

"He did?" 

Derek just raises one eyebrow, and that's--- Okay, he deliberately hadn't said much to Derek about his training when they talked. Mostly because they weren't on the phone for long, but also because he really, really wants what he's learning to work and he has this weird superstition that talking about it will jinx it. But Derek and Deaton have been talking? About him?

"Did he tell you about Scott and Allison, too?" he blurts out, because since when do Derek and Deaton talk about _him_? Deaton's been drilling the three of them separately, and he, Scott and Allison have an agreement to at try and be cool about the whole darkness-around-your-soul-thing by not discussing it with each other. 

"He did. He told me you've been working especially hard, that you haven't missed a single session."

"Yeah. He's--- Well, it's summer break and I kind of like learning what he's teaching me, so---" 

He shrugs and looks away because otherwise he might say that, sometimes, he feels like working with Deaton is the only thing keeping him sane, and that would just sound overdramatic. Sure, things have been weird since the Nemeton but, really, it could be worse. They're all okay, they survived, his Dad knows everything now, so, hey, no more secrets. 

But Deaton wasn't kidding about the darkness. He tries not to think about it when he doesn't have to because he's dealing okay and, like everyone knows, if you actually look at the monster in the mirror, chances are pretty good it will eat you whole. 

Anyway, the stuff Deaton's teaching him is cool, and he's just starting to get the hang of it. It feels as though if he can make a leap of some kind, a whole new world might open up. Deaton says it doesn't work like that, that progress is best when it's incremental -- each new skill building on the last until his abilities are layered -- that there's no such thing as a shortcut with whatever it is he's doing. But it doesn't feel like that. These last few days something's been building, the successes coming more easily, the blockages fewer, it feels like there's something important inside him opening up, something that's almost within his grasp.

"What's wrong with your neck?" Derek suddenly asks, frowning.

He blinks, confused, then he realizes he's been pressing his fingers into the muscle at the base of his skull. His head has been aching pretty constantly lately and working with Deaton always makes it worse; it makes his neck and shoulders tight. Scott's mom says it's because he didn't really rest after his concussion.

"Nothing," he waves off the concern. "It's just this stupid headache. I've probably been pushing too hard." 

He knows he has. Deaton's always telling him to slow down, consolidate, but going slow is a waste of time. He's never done 'slow' in his entire life.

Derek comes closer, still frowning. "You want me to--- ," he holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers, and Stiles realizes he means draw the pain out.

"No!" he says, too quickly, because he feels wired, and the last thing he needs is skin-to-skin contact with Derek see-into-your-every-thought-and-feeling Hale. 

But Derek frowns, and cocks his head sideways as though he's reading him anyway, so he hurriedly adds: "I mean, it's fine. Besides, you probably shouldn't be doing that, right? Last time didn't exactly go to plan." 

Derek had looked awful when they'd all regrouped after the Nemeton. Cora? She'd been fresh as a daisy, after Derek had given up his power to save her, but Derek had been totally wrecked. In the two days between when he disappeared and when he phoned, Stiles had actually worried that he'd crawled off somewhere, like a wounded animal, to die.

He takes a step back but Derek follows.

"Healing Cora went exactly to plan, I knew what would happen," he dismisses.

Okay, so that's new information. Not that they'd exactly had time to discuss anything back then. 

"You did?"

"I did," Derek confirms. "Peter explained it. He warned me what might happen."

"Peter?" He can't hold back the bitter laugh, because, well that explains a whole hell of a lot. "Peter's the last person in the world you should trust, he's a bigger creeper than you."

Derek rolls his eyes again but he's frowning, too. "Peter is---" he trails off, then shrugs. "I don't know why you worry so much about Peter. He isn't a threat to you."

"Dude, are you serious? Peter's a threat to everyone! I mean, we're talking about the guy who bit Scott and Lydia without their consent, who essentially murdered your sister, and who offered to bite _me_. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that he was, for a while there, totally and completely _dead_!"

"What?"

"Dead, Derek! You remember that time you ripped out your uncle's throat?" Seriously, is he kidding?

"No, not that." Derek shakes his head. "When he was Alpha, Peter -- he offered you the bite?"

"Ah. Yes?" 

Duh, how does Derek not know that? Doesn't anybody talk to anyone around here?

Derek scowls, then turns and paces away. 

"Look, it's okay. It was months ago," Stiles says, because it was, and he's gotten almost as good as Lydia at avoiding Peter, now, so it's just a thing that happened. 

"No, it's not okay!" Derek growls, and it's the most animated he's been since he appeared, specter-like, in the driveway. 

Stiles steps into Derek's path, makes Derek look at him. 

"Derek. You know it didn't happen. I told him no."

Derek stares at him intently, and fuck, he looks _scared_. Stiles reaches out carefully and presses his hand against Derek's chest. When he pushes his palm flat he feels a shudder ripple under Derek's skin. Under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, he feels impossibly warm.

"Dude, c'mon, I'm fine," he says, lifting his hand away in surprise, rubbing his fingers against his palm. 

Derek just stares at him and Stiles takes a step back, because what's going on here? 

"But what if he'd done it, and something had gone wrong?" Derek must be thinking about Jackson.

"Nothing went wrong, man, because there was no biting. I'm still me," he spreads his arms wide, displaying the obvious, "there's nothing more than pale fragile human-type Stilinski here."

For a minute Derek just stares back at him, but the air feels charged. To say nothing of the fact that his head is still pounding and he's starting to feel nauseous. He sucks in a tight breath and digs his fingers into the knotted muscle again, trying to relieve the tension.

Derek's eyes narrow as he watches, and then his mouth tightens. 

"Your head is hurting," he says, and the tone is typical Derek I-can-fix-it determined.

Stiles backs away because somehow it feels like letting Derek touch him is a bad idea. But for every step back he takes, Derek takes one forward until he's backed up against the counter. He's only a breath away when they both stop.

"Stiles, it's no big deal. Let me help you," Derek says, keeping his voice low, and he looks so intense, so sincere, so blessedly _here_ , that Stiles can't even remember why he's saying no. Besides, his head is aching like a bitch and any relief will be welcome.

"Okay," he nods, and then shuts his eyes when Derek closes the space between them because Derek still makes him nervous. For all of the same reasons he always has.

"Just breathe," Derek murmurs and wraps a hand around the back of his neck.

The pain releases suddenly, and it feels weird. He sucks in a breath, his heart skipping, but he doesn't resist when Derek eases his head forward until it's resting against the solid mass of his shoulder. Stiles can feel the pain flow from the spot at the front of his head where it's been pounding, down the back of his neck to where Derek's hand is pressing, and then it just -- disappears. 

But the pain flowing away isn't all that happens, it feels as though his awareness is growing, rising towards Derek's power, as well. He's suddenly more conscious of his heart, the way it beats solidly in time with the throb in his head; but instead of diminishing as the pain disappears its rhythm deepens, the pulse seeming to pervade every inch of his body, every single cell vibrating to that same persistent beat. Even more amazing, behind it, like an echo, he can feel another pulse; deeper, slower. Steady. He reaches out for it, instinctively trying to slow his own body to match its steadying rhythm, and between one breath and the next, something shifts and the pain --- evaporates.

"Derek," he manages to gasp because he can feel the spark inside him that Deaton's been helping him coax into life reach out towards that other beat like a plant reaching for the sun, and suddenly he's standing on the edge of a precipice, feeling shaky and unstable.

Derek doesn't say anything but his hand tightens and he draws Stiles in closer until he's cradled against the solid bulk of his chest with Derek wrapped around him. It's like basking in a warm summer's day and drowning at the same time; he feels grounded, adrift, his senses being pulled open to an impossible degree...

"Derek!" he gasps, more frantic because he doesn't know what this is and he has no idea whether to step off the cliff or back away. Then, suddenly, distressingly, the warmth wrapped around him is gone. 

"I'm sorry," Derek says, stumbling back a step, and the loss of contact is like being doused in a bucket of cold water.

Stiles' skin breaks out in a cold sweat and he grabs desperately at Derek's hand as it trails away, and then clutches it against his chest with both hands. The full body pulse is fading, his energy redistributing itself back into its normal places, except for that one spot where they're touching; there, he can feel his own heart, and Derek's, together, beating in time. But Derek's about to step away and that feels like the worst idea in the history of ideas. His chest suddenly won't expand enough for him to breathe. 

"No, no!" He can't let Derek go, couldn't bear it if that thin thread between them were to snap. "C'mere. Just--- " He makes his decision, tugs hard, reels Derek back in, and thankfully Derek doesn't resist. 

"---let me. Just for a minute, okay?" he mumbles into Derek's collar, overcome with relief when Derek complies and holds him again. 

His hands automatically slide under Derek's shirt and up his back and he feels the muscles shift and bunch under his palms as the warmth returns, then deepens and spreads. Derek's tense, he realizes, but he can't care, because his own body is swimming in feelings of good and right and perfect and, good god, he feels _fan-fucking-tastic_.

"Stiles." Derek breathes into the side of his neck, and he pulls back an inch, looks up and watches Derek's eyes flicker from their normal hazel to bright blue and back, the emotions playing across his face so clearly that Stiles can see each one -- fear, confusion, want, _need_. When Derek's eyes drop to his mouth, Stiles reaches up and closes the distance between them -- because he can't _not_ \-- then they're kissing, and it's raw and needy and so perfect he can't believe it. He's panting when they pull apart, his heart beating a wild tattoo in his chest. 

"Oh my god," he whispers between short, shallow breaths. He lets his head fall down onto Derek's shoulder. "What the hell is this?"

"I don't know," Derek murmurs. "It's never felt like this before." He's breathing hard, too, the fingers of one hand trailing patterns across Stiles' lower back. 

"Like what?" Stiles shivers, goose-bumps popping up all the way down his arms.

"Like -- something from you, joining with my power."

"Yeah," Stiles says, reverently, because that's exactly what it feels like. Derek's power ripples over his skin everywhere they're touching, tiny sparks of energy that join together to pool deep in the pit of his stomach.

"Have you ever done anything like this before?" Derek murmurs, stroking the back of his neck now. "Is it something Deaton taught you?" 

"No," he shakes his head, because he would definitely remember if this had happened before. "I've never been able to do anything like this, except... holy shit, maybe that's what happened with Cora," he lifts his head, suddenly remembering.

"Cora?" Derek asks, "What does this have to do with Cora?"

"I didn't say anything before because it didn't exactly come up. But Cora -- she, ah, she stopped breathing when you left her in the ambulance with me." 

"What?"

"Yeah, for a minute or two. I did mouth-to-mouth." He winces a little at the baldness of the statement because he knows how protective Derek is of his sister.

"You--- She stopped breathing?"

"Yeah, dude. Totally. But she still had a pulse, and so I breathed for her and, I don't know, maybe I did. Maybe I pushed, just a bit."

Derek stares at him intently, then nods. "We definitely need to talk to Deaton."

"No shit, Sherlock." 

He feels steadier now, so he pulls away even further, feels the warm pulse diminish, but it doesn't disappear the way it threatened to earlier. It just settles into a gentle, steady glow. 

"Okay?" Derek checks, and Stiles wonders just how much, exactly, Derek's able to feel of what's going on with him.

"Yeah," he nods, and he's relieved, because it is okay. They're standing a step apart now, and he doesn't feel the same sense of panic he did before. "I'm working with Deaton again tomorrow, I could ask him about--- " he gestures between them, because what the hell is he supposed to call this? "You could come, too?" he adds, making it a question because, well, it's Derek, and he has no idea what's going on in his head.

"All right," Derek agrees.

Stiles grins at him, unaccountably relieved that he's apparently planning to hang around. Well for tomorrow at least. Maybe he should find out what Derek's plans actually are.

"So. Does that mean you're staying?" he asks, trying to be casual. "Will Cora be okay?" 

Derek doesn't give much away, he never has, but he drops his eyes and shifts his weight, and suddenly Stiles just knows that he's more embarrassed than worried, and he's really only seen one person who can manage that.

He tries not to grin too much, but it's a losing battle. "Aww," he drawls. "Did Cora make you leave, big guy? Were you cramping her style?"

"Shut up!" Derek snaps, scowling, and Stiles can't help it, he laughs out loud because being amused is so much better than anything else.

"Oh, man, you are SO under Cora's thumb. It's the cutest thing I've ever seen." He pulls up a stool, tugs on Derek's arm and deposits him on it, then sits on the other one. "C'mon, stop glaring and spit it out. Tell me everything."

 

~*~*~*~

 

Derek leaves an hour later, even though it's fucking hard to let him go. He can still feel that deep connection that has obviously come from Derek, but what if whatever it is that happened when they connected un-happens when they're further apart? 

Just the thought of it makes Stiles want to puke, because he'll take scared and overwhelmed and 'no idea what the fuck is going on', if it means he can have keep this freaking unreal sense of openness, of being joined to _everything_. The thought of any of it disappearing has his stomach tying itself in knots. On the other hand, if he's not going to be joined to Derek Hale at the freaking hip, then he's going to have to let him go sometime.

So, he stands in the kitchen and closes his eyes and mentally holds on tight while Derek walks out to the porch. And when that's okay he makes him phone on his cell before he goes as far as the end of the street -- _"don't hang up, dude, just talk to me"_ \-- until eventually he feels brave enough to let him hang up and go all the way home. It's possible he holds his breath until Derek calls again from the loft, waiting for the minute that he crosses some invisible line and everything disappears, but it's okay, there's no unbearable wrenching-away of his newfound awareness. He can still feel the same warm sense of openness and connection that he did when Derek was standing right next to him. 

Still, Derek is gone, and he doesn't know what to do with the left over hyper-adrenaline. So he spends the next hour returning Scott's texts in completely random order and then scrambling the replies as well. Scott's confused _dude wtf r u doing?_ cracks him up, and they keep the back and forth going while he heats up leftover lasagne for dinner. He's trying to find the words to explain how bizarre his day has been, when Scott sends _dinner, talk later_ , and he lets it go. There's no point making a fuss about something that might not even last, anyway. Right?

By the time he's cleaned up downstairs and put on the load of washing he'd forgotten, the buzzing high has faded, leaving behind an all-encompassing exhaustion that makes him want to sleep for a month. 

The small glow of connection is still there, though, and by the time he slides into bed, just a tiny part of him dares to hope that he might get to keep this, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes suddenly, heart pounding, struggling to catch his breath around a wispy memory of his mother, and an encroaching, malevolent presence. The nightmares from the Nemeton suck so hard. 

He's standing up, trying to orient himself, pulling in air in short, shallow breaths when he realizes that there's something else wrong, too. 

He feels normal, unchanged, totally 100% powerless human.

The overwhelming sense of despair that hits at that realization almost sends him to his knees but somehow he manages to slide into the desk chair and dial Derek's number.

"Stiles?" Derek answers on the third ring.

"Derek," he gasps out, feeling adrift, his heart jumping around in his chest like a trapped bird. He bends forward over his knees and presses the phone tight against his ear, feeling the metal back slip against his sweaty palm. He can hardly gather enough air to speak. "I can't feel it!"

"Okay---" he hears rustling and pictures Derek sitting up in bed. "Breathe, come on -- in, slowly, out again -- you've got this."

"Derek," he whines, because he's starting to see stars but he doesn't care about breathing, he cares about the _connection_.

"No. Come on, breathe. I can hear your heart pounding from here."

"What!?" he squawks. Seriously? All the way across town?

"Over the phone, idiot." He might not see the eye-roll, but he knows it's there. Stupidly, Derek being an asshole makes him smile, and it's pretty hard to have a panic attack when you're smiling. 

"Think about yesterday," Derek's voice is weirdly calming; although when he thinks about it, maybe that's not so weird. "See if you can find that place. You said it felt warm, amazing, try and find it again."

He does what Derek says, concentrates, thinks about Deaton's exercises and turns his thoughts inwards, tracks back to that feeling of warmth from yesterday, and there! He latches on to the tiny spark of connection. It's barely there and for a second he stumbles mentally because he doesn't know what to do. But then he remembers Cora and he pushes at it, and---

"Oh my god," he gasps when the spark expands into a warm, gentle glow. "It's still there!"

Derek doesn't say anything for a long while, but he doesn't hang up either, just holds there while Stiles basks in the relief of found, and there, and _happy_.

"This is the coolest thing ever, man," he murmurs, because, really, it _so_ is. "But that scared me half to death. Just so you know."

"I noticed."

He laughs, because, yeah, and if Derek doesn't mention that the sound is maybe slightly on the edge of hysteria, then he's not saying anything either.

"What time are you seeing Deaton?" Derek asks.

"Oh, umm, not till four. What time is it now?" he pulls the phone away from his ear, squints at the screen and realizes it was probably his Dad leaving that woke him. He sucks in a tight breath.

"Dude! It's only 6.30!" he whimpers. "That's like, a whole ten hours away!"

"Calm down. I'll check if Deaton can make it earlier," Derek says, and then he hangs up, the bastard.

"Fuck!" Stiles swears, how the hell is he supposed to get through an entire day? 

Okay. He stands up, looks around the room. He can do some homework, study -- he throws his hands up in frustration because he doesn't HAVE any freaking homework on account of it being SUMMER. He did the laundry yesterday, vacuumed the day before. He even took the damn trash out last night. 

Shit! He looks around, heart starting to race again. He's never going to make it. He's going to crash and burn and break up into teensy tiny pieces like that Russian satellite that fell out of orbit last month and almost killed a million people. 

He's still standing there, breathing in tight, shallow breaths, when the phone he has clutched to his chest buzzes and scares him half to death. 

It's Derek, texting to tell him to be at Deaton's at 8.

 

~*~*~*~

 

He hunches into his jacket in the clinic doorway, willing the time to pass faster. Can't it be eight o'clock already? At least he's found a spot in the corner where it's pretty sheltered, but the wind might as well be coming off the goddamn Arctic the way it's swirling and howling. How come Summer weather is so goddamn fickle? 

The fact that he's been there, freezing his ass off and counting cracks in the pavement for thirty minutes isn't helping, either. He's thinking about doing a lap around the building just to get his blood flowing, when Scott pulls up at 5 minutes to eight. 

"Hey! Stiles!" Scott waves as he trots over. "Dude, you're not due here til four. Did you mix the days up?"

Stiles shrugs and scrubs a palm over the back of his head. "No, it's-- well, this weird thing happened yesterday, so I kind of need some emergency Deaton time." He's not deliberately keeping Scott out of the loop, it's just -- it's always been his job to figure things out, explain what's going on, and right now he doesn't have a clue. "Sorry, bro, didn't mean to cut into your slot."

"What? No, it's fine. What's up?" Scott frowns, radiating concern, because he's the best, and of course he's reading Stiles the way he always does. 

"Nothing, man, it's just---" He's thinking about what to say, trying to find words that won't freak Scott out or make it sound like he's lost his marbles, when Derek's truck turns into the parking lot. Scott's head whips around. 

"It's Derek," he frowns, "what's he doing here?" He sounds puzzled, and also suspicious, which is kind of understandable, really. Derek didn't hang around long enough after the Nemeton to settle their truce into anything solid, and Scott will probably always be more comfortable with the idea of Derek being 'somewhere else'. 

"Ah, yeah," he tries, shuffling his feet, "he might have come home last night." 

He tries to conjure a reassuring smile, only it maybe comes out as more of a grimace, judging by the way Scott's face settles into a deeper frown. So, huh, obviously this thing doesn't come with Jedi-style powers of persuasion. _"This is not the Derek you want"_ , he thinks, half hysterically, wondering if a light-saber might help. He's definitely going to have to spend some quality time with Scott later. 

But right now, Derek's out of the truck and heading towards them, and with every step he takes Stiles can feel the tension in his shoulders start to release, because, well, it's Derek, and just seeing him is apparently enough to make little bubbles of happiness fizz through his blood. 

Peripherally, he registers Scott taking a step closer, his frown deepening into a scowl, and he feels a guilty pang because whatever yo-yo emotions he's projecting are probably confusing the hell out of Scott. But that's somehow secondary to the fact that Derek is _here_ , and the hours since they've been in touching distance feel like a month, and he's tempted to just fling himself against that broad chest and solid muscle and what he knows will be pure, delicious warmth before he vibrates right out of his skin. 

It's awkward, because aside from whatever it is that's going on, they've both so far completely ignored the fact that Derek kissed him. Or, to be fair, he kissed Derek. Who cares. He may have started the kissing, but Derek totally kissed him back, and it was good. Great even, and who knew that was even possible? Whatever. He's pretty sure he's going to want to do that again. Soon.

And, wow. Maybe he ought to dial that down just a notch.

Derek stops a few feet away and stares at Stiles as though he can see right into him, and to hell with the not-throwing-himself-at-him thing. He's about to take a step forward when Derek blinks and switches his attention to Scott. 

"Scott," Derek acknowledges, his voice quiet and respectful, and Stiles freezes, feels his mouth drop open in surprise. Then he remembers that Derek's a Beta now and Scott's an Alpha, and there's probably some weird Alpha-Beta-pack dynamic thing going on between the two of them that he's not party to.

Scott, clearly interpreting the obvious tension into something it's absolutely not, looks between the two of them, then takes another step closer to him, and Stiles snorts. He loves Scott like a brother, and it's not that he doesn't appreciate the protective gesture because he does, but Scott has all of the impulse control of a defensive puppy and the last thing he needs is to have him going all werewolf-protecto-freaky on his ass because he can't tell the difference between danger and -- well, okay, he'll say it -- something maybe a little more lust-like. 

"Dude." He puts a hand on Scott's arm and makes a serious effort to project calm, rational, and nothing-going-on-here. "Relax, everything's cool."

Derek's gaze swings back to him, and man, that's intense. Derek is looking at him as though something dire might have befallen him in the 12 hours since they were last face-to-face. His heart skips in his chest and he shoves his shaking hands deep into his pockets. 

"Stiles?" Scott asks, looking confused, and yeah, come on down and join the party with _that_ emotion. 

Stiles waves a hand in denial and ducks his head to hide the flush that heats his chest and neck, because no one gave him a game-plan for this! Everything he _could_ say tumbles around inside his head without taking shape into a single useful thing that would sound reasonable coming out of his mouth. He can literally feel the intensity of Derek's emotions, even if he can't untangle what they mean, and who even knows what _he's_ projecting. For once in his life he keeps his eyes on his shoes and says nothing, and is eternally grateful for the distraction of Deaton's car pulling into the lot.

They stand there in a strange silence until Deaton walks up, looking from one to the other of them in puzzled amusement.

"Come through to the back," Deaton instructs as he unlocks the door. "Scott, will you see to the animals, please?"

"What? No!" Scott looks from Derek to Stiles and back again. He's still crowded a little too closely into Stiles' personal space, which is kind of adorable even if it is slightly ridiculous considering Derek is the very least of the things anyone needs to be concerned about right now.

"Hey, dude, it's fine," he says again, going for a pat on the back this time seeing as how his grin seems to be broken. "We can talk later."

Scott doesn't look convinced, but under the combined stares of Deaton and Derek, and Stiles' waggling eyebrows, he finally gives in and walks through to the animal room, past where Deaton is patiently holding the door open. 

Stiles follows Deaton into the dark stillness of the clinic. His thoughts are going a million miles a minute but without anything he can actually latch onto, until he feels Derek's hand, a small solid warmth in the small of his back, and his mind goes instantly, blessedly still.

"So." Deaton switches on the lights in the examination room, and then turns to face them. "Who wants to go first?" He's wearing that inscrutable smile that makes Stiles think of the Cheshire Cat.

"Um---" Stiles stops three steps inside the room, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by just how much has changed in less than 24 hours. Where the hell does he even start?

Instead of walking past him, Derek hooks one arm around his waist and tugs him back, in between his legs, so that they're both leaning against the examination table. And oh man, that's good. He relaxes until his back is flush against the solid muscle of Derek's chest and it's just like last night, his body soaking in Derek's warmth like soil starved of rain, only this time he doesn't feel like he's drowning. He feels secure, safe, and he lets his eyes fall closed.

"Come on, breathe with me," Derek murmurs next to his ear and he realizes just how rapid his own breathing is. The weight of Derek's hand settles against the middle of his chest, pressing him close, and it's like being anchored in a stormy sea. 

"Okay," he nods, then he consciously forces his diaphragm down, holds it there while the air flows into his lungs, and slowly lets it out the way Deaton taught him. He can feel Derek's chest expand and contract against his back and it doesn't take long until he's matching the rate and rhythm of Derek's breathing. It's a gazillion times better than trying to do it by phone.

He has no idea how long they stand there; it's possible he's totally zoned, and then Deaton clears his throat and pulls his attention back. He forces his eyelids up and, okay, wow, that's maybe a much better state of relaxation than he's ever achieved with Deaton drilling him. Funky.

"Ah, yeah," he says, meeting Deaton's raised eyebrow. His hand sneaks up to cover Derek's on his chest and he makes no effort at all to stop the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. "So, there's that." 

 

~*~*~*~

 

"Maybe you should start, Deaton," Derek says from behind his left shoulder, and Stiles grins because he can tell that Derek's annoyed. Which is totally cool -- that he knows that, not so much that Derek's annoyed, although it's kind of a protective annoyed so that's actually pretty cool, too.

"All right, what do you want to know?" Deaton agrees. 

"The drills you've been doing with Stiles? What exactly are they for?"

"Well," Deaton begins, but when he pauses he's looking at Stiles, not Derek, as though it's more important to him that Stiles understands. Which is kind of weird, because they've already talked about this. A lot. Huh. Is he asking permission to tell Derek? Stiles frowns, then he remembers that Derek was the one who phoned, and okay yes, maybe he is being a little more handsy than normal, but really? What's with everyone painting him as Buttercup in this scenario? He frowns and shrugs in what he hopes is a _'wtf, of course'_ way, and thankfully Deaton carries on. 

"As I explained to Stiles and the others before they agreed to the ritual, connecting with the Nemeton leaves behind a permanent darkness around the heart, a scar, if you will. It's the kind of mark that, if left unchecked, has the potential to cause great damage."

"The way it did with Jennifer," Stiles murmurs. Derek stiffens behind him. 

"Yes," Deaton agrees, "the way it did with Jennifer." But Deaton is still watching Derek closely, and Stiles grips Derek's hand a little harder, makes sure that it's obvious he wants it right where it is thank-you-very-much because Deaton doesn't get to be all judgey about this. He's watching Deaton closely enough to notice when his eyes open a little wider at the movement of Stiles' hand. 

"The drills we've been doing draw from the principles of meditation and mindfulness," Deaton continues, but he's looking at Stiles now, and yeah, that's better. "Meditation is to achieve a heightened sense of awareness, and mindfulness to help concentration. My hope is that by learning to tune in to his own patterns of energy, Stiles will be able to control his power well enough to channel it away from the Nemeton's darkness, thereby starving it of the ability to grow."

"Your 'hope'?" Stiles tunes back in to what Deaton's saying because, seriously? He'd kind of been banking on there being something a little stronger than hope attached to what they've been doing. 

"As you know, nothing is certain when dealing with the supernatural. It doesn't pay to be over-confident," Deaton says. "However, we've made significant progress over the last weeks and, if I'm not mistaken, the two of you have advanced that considerably."

"Yeah, well, I don't know how much 'advancing' there's been, but we've definitely done something," Stiles mutters, irritated. It's not an uncommon emotion where Deaton's concerned.

Derek's arm tightens around his waist. "What else can you tell us?"

"Until now, it's been harder for Stiles than for the others. He doesn't have Scott's werewolf healing to boost his stamina, nor has he had a partner to work with that he's properly connected to as Allison is, now, to Isaac."

"Hey," he protests. "I had Lydia until she went on vacation."

"Yes, and Lydia has made a significant contribution," Deaton agrees. "Without her, you would never have progressed the way you have, but we must accept that there are limits to how much she can do. Her attention is centered elsewhere, now, and neither she, nor you, wish to deepen your connection."

That's -- actually true. He and Lydia are closer than they've ever been, but he doesn't want to push it any further; hasn't for a while. Suddenly Derek's appearance doesn't seem all that random. 

"Wait. Is this why Derek came back? Did you tell him to?" He whirls on Derek. "Is that what last night was? Some kind of experiment?" He doesn't know why that idea makes his anger flare white hot, but it does.

"Stop it!" Derek orders, and okay, clearly he's not the only one on edge. "Deaton told me he thought you were close to something even though he didn't know exactly what, but that you kept getting blocked. He thought that you and Lydia were both unconsciously holding back." 

Stiles scoffs, because that's so not true. Lydia would never do that, she's been 100% committed. "So, what? You thought you'd give it a whirl? Test out the old freaky-deaky power thing." He wiggles his fingers in Derek's face, because no matter how cool he wants to be about it, the thought that anything about the way he's connected to Derek might have been at best, a plan he wasn't party to, or at worst, a casual experiment, hurts.

"No. Everything's not about you, Stiles," Derek says. 

"Oh?" he snaps back, flailing an arm between them. "Except for how THIS totally is!"

"Look, I came back for the same reason you've stayed, because this is my home, and activating the Nemeton started something that I'm not walking away from." Derek must sense Stiles' agitation because he reaches out, visibly pulls in a deep breath then picks up Stiles' hand and holds it in both of his.

"Last night, I just--- You were exhausted," Derek looks up from his perusal of Stiles' knuckles to glare at Deaton who has the grace to look a little abashed, "I needed---" he breaks off, shakes his head, "I was trying to help you, that's it. I had no more idea what would happen than you did."

Stiles stares at their joined hands, trying to process. It all sounds plausible, that Derek came back for all of the reasons he said, that what happened last night just happened, but he knows this is important, that whatever link they're forging, it's vital they start out with trust between them. And somewhere in there he can hear Derek hiding something, even if he has no idea what it is.

But the truth of it is that, even while this whole thing is confusing the hell out of him, he wants to see where it can go. Every instinct is screaming at him that he needs this, needs to realize whatever potential has been triggered, and he trusts Derek. If he has to choose to go one way or the other, he's sticking with Derek.

"Okay," he looks up at Derek's stupidly earnest face, and when his mouth curves in a gentle smile, all remaining doubt evaporates. Seriously, the guy is just a giant puppy, how could anyone not trust that face? He turns and slumps back against Derek's chest again and raises his eyebrows at Deaton. "So okay then, Doc, lay it on us. What do you think's going on?" 

Deaton looks between them and doesn't so much as blink when Derek's hand sneaks under the front of Stiles' shirt to rest on the bare skin of his abdomen. Unlike Stiles, who has to swallow back a groan when his skin sparks into life at the contact. But, seriously, can they just get to the point already? He raises one eyebrow expectantly and counts it a win when Deaton finally answers the question. 

"Some of the abilities of the spark are embodied in vitalist theory and beliefs -- that living organisms possess a life-energy for which physical laws can never fully account, and that there are certain people who learn to manipulate that energy. Some people call that magic."

"What?" Stiles startles, everything but the last bit fading into white noise. "You think I can do magic?"

"I've suspected for a long time, yes."

"And you didn't think you should maybe tell me that?" he flails.

"It's forbidden."

"What? Oh, come on! How can you say that?"

"It is forbidden to interfere. The spark's powers must manifest on their own, or not at all."

"The what, now?"

Deaton's indulgent smile isn't any more reassuring than any other expression he uses. "As I said, people with your power are commonly called a spark."

"Oka-ay, and what happened to teaching, training? You know, a little bit of guidance for the baby spark?"

"Until the spark's powers manifest, interference is forbidden."

"And now?" Derek interrupts, tugging him close again and he's kind of glad because he's pretty much lost the power to speak. That is the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"Now things are different. Now my responsibility is to guide you in whatever way you choose. How much or how little of my help you accept is entirely up to you."

"How about you start with some information about what's going on between us, and we'll take it from there," Derek says.

"All right, there is some lore surrounding werewolves and sparks although much of it is shrouded in secrecy. What is known is that werewolves instinctively seek out strong bonds. Both on the familial level -- what you call pack -- and on the personal level. The legends say that the bond between a spark and a werewolf is one of the strongest, but I've never personally seen such a thing. You have to understand that untrained human sparks are rare."

"Okay, so last night was...?" Stiles prompts, because holy shit. Magic.

"I believe that the magic in you was somehow activated by the power of Derek's wolf. That the drills we've been doing opened you to the possibility, and Derek somehow achieved the rest. I'm fairly certain it could only be possible if Derek were to still have some residual alpha power."

"What?" Derek exclaims, and Stiles feels a sharp spike of emotion from him. "How can that be possible?"

"This is all purely lore, verbal history without any proof," Deaton explains, "but I've heard that it's possible for there to be an exchange of power -- some of the alpha power transferring to the spark, and vice versa. Stiles may have inadvertently called forward whatever alpha power remained in you, just as your power did the same for him. If the two of you are willing to spend some time exploring the changes you've experienced, we may be able to determine how that exchange has manifested." Deaton sounds remarkably calm considering they're talking about, what? Him getting some of Derek's wolf power? Huh, that would explain the whole senses thing, but still, what the ever-loving-fuck?

"Why don't you tell me more about what the two of you did last night?" Deaton suggests and his tone is gentle, as though he's finally realized Stiles is maybe freaking out just a bit.

"Um, well," Stiles sucks in a deep breath, and tries to get his thoughts together. "I, ahh, I had a headache. Kind of a bad one---"

"You shouldn't have been pushing him so hard," Derek interrupts, and he doesn't even need to look up to know Derek's frowning. Okay, well that explains the protective, annoyed-with-Deaton, thing.

"It's possible that Stiles' body chemistry is adjusting to accommodate his new abilities. I also don't have your senses, Derek. I rely on Stiles to tell me how he's feeling," Deaton responds.

"Okay, can we concentrate here?" he interrupts before the two of them can get going. More important things.

"I'm sorry, you're correct," Deaton concedes. "Last night?"

"Oh, man, it was amazing. Like nothing I've ever felt before. Like a dozen red bulls and a shot of adrenalin. That kind of high -- like I could feel more, sense more. Like there was a whole other universe inside my skin."

"Derek?"

Derek hesitates, draws Stiles closer. "It's hard to explain. I began to draw the pain from Stiles, and at first it was the same as it always is. But then I felt something different, a force within him, rising to meet my power. It kept growing the longer we stayed in contact."

"And when you separated"

"Less, but still there," Derek confirms.

"Dude, it was like a thread stretched out between us. I was scared shitless it would break because who knows if we'd ever get that back if we let it go! And besides, I have no freaking idea what I'm doing."

"You seem to be doing just fine, Stiles."

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one with the, the -- thing, happening! Still, today it seems stronger, more settled. So, this is good? This spark thing. Is it the same as what you do? The emissary stuff?"

"No. An emissary is more of an intermediary. My role is to see the path ahead and help others to find it. We also act as historians of a sort. Each pack keeps its own traditions, records its own history, but for obvious reasons the packs are reluctant to exchange information between them, so emissaries act as caretakers of the lore as a whole. That's why I can tell you with some certainty that this -- what the two of you have done -- while not unheard of, is nevertheless quite rare."

"I don't know about rare, but yeah, last night was totally amazing!"

Stiles hears a choked noise from the door and when he turns he's confronted by Scott's horrified face. "Dude, 'last night'?" Scott repeats, eyebrows rising into his hairline while he frowns at how closely Derek and Stiles are entwined. Given the emotion swirling around the room, it's obvious what he's thinking.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Seriously? Out of all the weirdness, _that's_ what's bothering you?"

"It's Derek!" Scott exclaims, looking appalled.

"Scott!" he snaps. "Get a grip! Bigger things happening here!"

"Dude, nothing's bigger than you and ... Derek," Scott says, and okay, yeah. That hasn't exactly been on anyone's horizon, so maybe he has a point. Still.

"Except for how we've somehow managed to connect in some kind of mystical way. _That_ might be bigger!" he retorts.

"What?" Scott frowns.

"Well, to cut a long story short," he gestures between Derek and Scott, "you two, werewolves," he points to himself, shrugs, "me, apparently, magical human." 

Wait! He spins around to Deaton. "We are still talking 100% fragile human here, right?"

"Yes, Stiles," Deaton smiles. "You are most definitely still completely human. Although, perhaps not quite as fragile as you once were."

"Well, that's a relief," Stiles says, just as Scott whines: "Will someone _please_ tell me what's going on?" 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Stiles means to, he really does. Scott is his best bud, his pal; the Robin to his Batman, the Shaggy to his Scooby, the Brad to his Angelina. Okay, maybe not the last one, but Scott's his brother, and he _wants_ to tell him everything.

But Deaton's adamant that they go over what happened without Scott's 'interference', whatever the hell that means, and insists they test what he and Derek can do alone -- concentrate, focus, stand here, stand there, yes everything is easier with Derek wrapped around him, no he can't sense Deaton the way he can Derek, God, what the hell difference can holding a glass of water make? 

There's one moment when he's supposed to be thinking about his energy, trying to control the way it flows through his body, when he realizes that instead he's only thinking about the weight of Derek's hands in his. He has no idea why doing this feels so much more intimate than everything else they've ever done. They've been almost naked together, for fuck's sake, and he never felt his cells reacting to Derek's presence the way they do now.

With Deaton's prodding, Derek reveals the startling fact that the way he can feel Stiles now is different to the way he senses any other human, more like the way he could feel the betas when he was still their Alpha, but different enough that he's cautiously fumbling his way around it, too. Not as much as Stiles is, though. For him, it's as though this new power is filling up all the spaces in his head and overwhelming any ability he ever had to concentrate, and Deaton just keeps going on and on and ON ---

Derek stubbornly calls a halt after Stiles almost face plants into the cat kibble, and then he's being shepherded out the door with Derek vetoing anything that's not his ass in the car, being driven home. 

For a minute, when they're leaving, it looks like Derek and Scott are going to go toe-to-toe when Scott's concerned "where are you taking him?" is met with Derek's implacable "home." Which, okay, that's true as far as destinations go, but it's not as though a little elaboration ever hurt.

"Dude, if I don't get some sleep I'm going to fall over," he says to Scott, finally intervening when he can't take the posturing any longer. "Everything's cool, really. I'll phone you later."

"Tomorrow," Derek clarifies, sounding just like a gruff old bear as he steers him out the door and into the truck. He's too tired to argue so he just goes along; in fact they're a mile down the road before he even remembers that his Jeep is at the clinic. So that's probably good, because he falls asleep slumped against the passenger window and there's no way he'd have been safe to drive.

He wakes up when Derek pokes him, wipes the drool off his chin and stumbles out the door into -- huh, they're in the car park at Derek's loft. Why aren't they at home where they're supposed to be? 

He turns around, mouth open to speak, but Derek cuts him off. "I'm not leaving you alone," he growls and crowds him into the elevator and up to the loft. Stiles just barely resists the urge to pat his frowny face. 

"Here," Derek shoves his phone at him, and he somehow finds the energy to send his Dad an "at Scott's" text, before he passes out on Derek's bed.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes to the light of the afternoon sun streaming in the windows of the loft, Derek wrapped around him. He's still fully clothed, which should be awful, because everyone knows that sleeping in jeans is impossible, but it's not. He's not only managed to sleep for what feels like hours, he feels calm, at ease, he can't remember the last time he felt so content. Derek is heavy and warm against his back, the bed is obscenely comfortable, and the connection is wide open and humming with happiness. It's strange because there's only the two of them, and yet it feels like pack and family and home.

He wraps his hand over Derek's -- the one that seems to have found a permanent home on his chest -- and blinks his eyes slowly closed. He might be smiling; it's possible. He might even wriggle his hips just a little so that they're cradled more surely against Derek's, and form half a thought about definitely wanting to explore that more later.

He's pretty sure he's not imagining the ghost of a kiss that lands on the back of his head, as he drifts back to sleep.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The next time he wakes, it feels like late afternoon. The sun's lower and the loft is darker, more quiet. After weeks of restless snatches of sleep, he can't quite believe he could just pass out and sleep a whole afternoon away like that. He stretches, rolls onto his back and wriggles until he's star-fished in the middle of the bed, groaning with satisfaction.

"Man, I hope you've got some food, because I am _star-ving_!" he says loudly at the ceiling, because he knows Derek is here.

"I'm not bringing you food in bed," Derek's disembodied voice retorts from the direction of the couch, but there's a smile in his voice. 

Stiles grins and hauls himself up, then he crawls down to the end of the bed, moaning "food, foooooood" with every bit of dramatic talent he has. But it sucks to be him -- the back of Derek's head tilts back as though he's rolling his eyes but he doesn't move, the bastard.

"Come on," he moans, dramatically forcing a wobble into his voice. "I'm weak, fragile, remember?"

This time he hears a definite snort, but it's followed by the most blessed words in the entire universe: "There's a turkey sandwich here if you want it." 

He flings himself off the bed and has to pause for a second when the blood pools in his feet, but then his stomach takes over and guides him straight to the coffee table and the delicious wonderful sandwich just waiting for him. He's seated cross-legged on the floor, moaning around his first enormous bite before he even bothers to look up.

"Hey," he grins, mouth full of his second bite, finally meeting Derek's raised eyebrows.

"Hey, yourself," Derek replies, and there's a wry smile playing around his mouth.

He grins again then goes back to his food and it's so good that he can't help humming with appreciation. "This is one fine sandwich, dude." He licks some stray mayo off his fingers. "You should go into business."

"As a sandwich maker," Derek deadpans, watching him, and okay, no. That would be weird, although 'Hale's hearty lunches' would have a kind of a ring to it. He snickers to himself and dives in for the second half because, seriously, best sandwich ever. 

He looks up when Derek pushes off the couch, and watches him walk to the fridge. Derek's always been easy to watch -- walking, running, fighting -- the way he balances strength and agility is kind of hypnotizing. But this is the first time Stiles has seen these particular light-weight grey pants, and yeah, the way they hug every muscle is--- He tilts his head so he can still see when Derek moves behind the makeshift counter and, oops, he drops his head to hide the furious blush that results when Derek looks up. He's so intent on not being caught looking that he startles when a glass of juice appears next to his plate. 

"Oh, thanks," he manages, stuffing the last corner of bread into his mouth, but his embarrassment recedes when he realizes that Derek's watching every move of his, too. He deliberately sticks his thumb into his mouth to lick off the last crumbs, then pulls it out with a loud pop. "Man that was good!"

Derek just huffs out a disbelieving sound and shakes his head, and god, that just makes him so freaking happy!

"So. What do we do now?" he asks, trying to get a grip, because what the hell is wrong with him? He's having a love affair with Derek's indulgent face, now? He picks up the glass and downs half of it in one go.

"It's getting late, do you need to go home?" 

Derek sounds nonchalant, but there's a faint color under his skin that says something else altogether. Stiles is tempted to say no, just to see what happens, but he's still unsure enough to hesitate. Plus, it's not like he won't have to go home at some point, so maybe now is as good a time as any.

"Ah, yeah," he says, and crosses his arms on the coffee table, resting his chin on his forearms. "My Dad, he'll be home soon and if I'm not there he'll worry so, you know..."

Derek purses his lips but he nods and Stiles feels his heart skip, because yeah, he recognizes this feeling he's getting from Derek now, because he feels it as well. He'd much rather they stayed together, too.

"Okay, look." He straightens, suddenly changing his mind. His heart is thumping like a bass drum, the feelings from the both of them clattering around in his chest, because what he's about to suggest feels like a leap of faith. "Let's just go to my house and when my Dad comes home we'll tell him, about this, I don't know -- something. And then I'll talk to Scott and tell him, too, and then -- we'll come back here, and, I don't know. We'll just come back here, okay?"

"Stiles---" Derek frowns. "I don't know if that's a good idea, especially telling your Dad now when we don't even really know what's going on."

And okay, yes, that's a fair point. But no, he's not lying to his Dad any more, not even by omission. He gets up on his knees, crawls the few feet over to the couch and shoves his body between Derek's thighs. "We know enough, and I can't lie to my Dad any more, Derek," he says, but Derek shakes his head.

"It's not lying if you don't say anything."

"It's the same," he insists, and fuck it; just like that he doesn't want to talk anymore because Derek's right there, their chests are almost pressed together, his waist is bracketed by Derek's goddamn thighs and he's overcome with _want_. He leans in, eyes moving between Derek's mouth and his eyes, and he sees the moment Derek realizes what he's doing, watches his eyes open wider and feels his chest expand as he sucks in a tiny breath. Before he loses his nerve, Stiles surges forward and brings their mouths together. He's almost expecting Derek to push him away because that's just the way his life rolls, but it doesn't happen. Derek doesn't hesitate, he leans into the kiss and angles his head so that their mouths slot together perfectly.

And, dear lord, it's even more overpowering than last night. Stiles feels the connection flare, feels his own heart rate accelerate and a desperate need to be closer, get his hands on Derek's skin, has him gasping into the kiss. He grabs two fistfuls of Derek's shirt and tugs until he slides forward, bringing them tighter together. For a few minutes it's all heat and desire, and God, he wants to climb into Derek's skin! But then he feels Derek's steadier, more protective emotion twine with his own, the lust carefully banked, and it helps him breathe more steadily, pull it back a bit, slow down.

"Wow," he finally manages when they eventually pull apart far enough that he can rest his forehead against Derek's, panting. "That's--- Is kissing always like that?" he asks, because hey, no wonder Allison and Scott are perpetually joined at the lips.

"No," Derek shakes his head slightly, "it's not always like that." Then he looks up, his mouth widening into a grin as he slides back a bit, increasing the space between them. "You must be unique."

"Oh, hardy har har," he responds, punching Derek hard in the shoulder, his face flushing because, hello, virgin. He might have watched a metric fuckton of porn, but that doesn't mean he knows anything about feeeeelings. But hey, he's allowed to kiss now, make up for lost time, so he does. And Derek just goes with it, returning the kisses, his mouth so soft and welcoming that Stiles could get lost in it. In fact he almost does, except for the small matter of needing to decide what to do about his Dad.

"I need to tell my Dad," he manages to say, eventually, against Derek's mouth.

"If you're sure," Derek murmurs, softly, and God, Stiles could really develop a thing for the rasp of stubble against the soft skin of his neck.

He breathes in deep, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of Derek, and reluctantly sits back on his heels. He runs his hands up and down Derek's thighs hoping the contact is somehow reassuring. He's seen the way the wolves all touch each other when they're stressed, so it can't hurt.

"No, look, it'll be fine," he promises, although he's not sure if he's trying to convince himself or Derek. "Dad's been really cool with the whole werewolf thing. Confused, yeah, but he's okay, you know? This is not as big as that, right? He'll be fine." God, there's that word again, FINE.

"Okay," Derek says, even if he doesn't sound convinced. "When it comes to your Dad, it's your call."

 

~*~*~*~

 

Which is how they find themselves back in the Stilinski kitchen, with Stiles pacing nervously between the fridge and the counter and back again, because being here, planning to tell his Dad, that just makes it all real.

"Calm down," Derek says from where he's propped against the doorframe, arms folded. But he looks kind of tense, maybe irritated. As usual, almost everything he gets from Derek is a complex jumble that makes it impossible to guess what the hell he's feeling. 

"Are you mad at me?" he asks, not really thinking that's what it is, but he needs to ask anyway because God, this tension is killing him!

"I'm not mad," Derek denies. 

He doesn't know how to take that because Derek sure seems something, so he just shrugs and looks away. 

"Do I look mad?" Derek asks quietly from right beside him and Stiles startles. He's so preoccupied he didn't even notice Derek push off the doorframe and come to stand next to him.

Derek's eyes are mesmerizing, and Stiles is somehow elated and terrified at the same time. "Well, your eyebrows are maybe a little---" he waggles his fingers, shrugs, "---you know." 

Derek rolls his eyes, then shoves his hands under Stiles' armpits, hoists him up to sit on the counter, and then forces his way in between his thighs.

Stiles squawks, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up and out of his chest, because wow, who knew he'd be so into the whole man-handling thing? But Derek's right in his space, and his eyes are deep and swirling with color and that's just way too distracting. 

"Do you have any idea at all how much power you have?" Derek asks, his voice hitting a deep register that sends shivers up Stiles' arms, and huh. What? He has just enough time to catch his breath in surprise before Derek is bringing their mouths together in a fiercely possessive kiss.

This time it's Stiles who pulls back, letting his head drop on Derek's shoulder. "Dude, you keep doing that, I am literally going to go up in flames," he gasps, but he can't help grinning, too, because the whole idea of Derek thinking _he's_ the one with the power is pretty damn hilarious. 

"Hmmm," Derek hums, mouthing at his neck and that's not the first time he's been on that spot. There'll probably be a giant hickey there tomorrow.

"Can I ask you something?" Stiles asks, tilting his head to allow better access.

"Okay," Derek murmurs.

"When I asked you why you came back, you said it wasn't because Deaton asked you to, you know--" He flips his fingers between them when Derek looks up.

Derek blinks slowly, long lashes casting a shadow on his high cheekbones. He leans back and puts a little space between them.

"It wasn't."

"So why won't you tell me what it was, huh? What's the big secret?" It's something he's been stewing over, because if Derek didn't come back because Deaton asked him to do the power thing, then there has to have been another reason, right?

Derek pauses, watching him so intently that he starts to squirm. Maybe there'll be a day when that kind of focus turned completely on him doesn't make his skin prickle, but today is not that day. Finally Derek nods, then leans in and kisses him gently.

"I am telling you," he says, simply, then kisses him more thoroughly, and oh. Oh! This? This them? _This_ is why Derek came back? Oh, god, that changes everything. Here he'd been thinking he'd pushed something on Derek, when all the time--- 

"Oh god," he groans into the kiss, his entire body flushing with heat. "Why didn't you say something before?" 

Derek just shakes his head, not meeting his eyes, and when he speaks he sounds strangely defenseless. "I've messed up too many things in my life, Stiles. I need to make sure this isn't one of them."

Oh, man. He turns Derek's head, tilts his own so he can meet his eyes. How has he never realized just how vulnerable Derek can be? "You're not," he says fiercely, and leans in to resume the kiss. "We won't." 

He hasn't consciously been holding back, but hearing that, that Derek is nervous about this too, that he wanted him even before the connection thing happened, lets him open himself even more and suddenly he can feel _everything_ in a bright flood of warmth and desire and pure unfettered joy. It's suddenly a thousand times easier to separate out the different emotions from the both of them and he gasps in astonishment.

Derek pulls back, eyes sweeping his face, and Stiles feels his skin heat under the scrutiny.

"Is this too much?" Derek asks, and Stiles wants to smooth away the frowny lines that crease his forehead.

"No, no!" he laughs, because it's so not. He feels utterly amazing. "It's cool, dude. I'm fine; awesome, actually. God, you have no idea what this feels like!"

Derek's staring at him intently, his eyes dark and focused. He curls his hand around Stiles neck, runs the pad of his thumb over his cheek and Stiles has no idea what he's thinking so he ducks his head and leans into the caress.

"Are you scared?" Derek asks, and he feels his cheeks flood with heat because there's no mistaking what Derek means.

"What? No! Okay, yeah, maybe. Only because I haven't before. Done this, you know, the sex thing. Not because I don't want to."

Derek closes his eyes for a second, pauses, and then blinks up at him. Shit. Jesus, he's fucking gorgeous.

Stiles dives back in. Seriously crashes their mouths together -- it's lucky Derek heals quickly because he'd swear he tastes blood for a second -- and worms his hands up under the front of Derek's shirt so that he can smooth them over and around the firm cage of his chest. It's not something he's ever thought about before -- like _ever_ , seriously, sex with Derek Hale -- but, God, now that they're here he's not ever letting this go. There's no thought in what they're doing, no sanity at all, just pure, unadulterated need. Stiles is hard so fast it's painful and he presses his groin in against Derek's hip searching for friction, pressure, something. Derek shudders and shoves a hand down the back of his pants, hauls him in closer, then tears his mouth away and presses his face in tight against his neck.

He's just working up a blessedly satisfying rhythm when suddenly it's all gone. He's left grasping at air as Derek is wrenched away and his eyes fly open to see the angry face of his father.

"What the hell do you think you're doing," the Sheriff demands of Derek, who still has one hand on Stiles even while he's half wolfed-out. And wow, that must take a lot of restraint to have controlled his shift at least that much, considering the surprise came when they were both so vulnerable. Derek's fangs are fully down, even while his face has barely shifted at all and Stiles can feel the sharp prick of claws at the bare skin of his waist. 

He slides off the counter, panicking, because his father actually has his gun out.

"No, Dad!" he shouts, putting himself firmly between his father and Derek, "It's just Derek."

"I can see that," the Sheriff snaps, glaring past him at Derek. "What the hell were you doing to my son? Did you bite him?"

"No!" Stiles exclaims at the same time as Derek lets out a pure angry snarl. "Dad, no! Derek wasn't hurting me."

"Then what---?" his Dad trails off, confused and Stiles sees the moment when his eyes fix on Stiles' neck and everything snaps into place. His father's face suffuses with an angry red heat and his lips press tightly together.

"Sir, I can explain---" Derek tries, and Stiles can feel the superhuman effort it takes for him to pull the wolf back, to settle his features back to fully human. His Dad just glares harder and stabs a finger at him.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut and get out of my house."

"Dad---"

"Not now, Stiles!" his father snaps, eyes flashing, and he never even looks his way. His eyes are fixed on Derek as though he's a dangerous predator. 

Stiles obediently snaps his mouth shut because if he's learned one thing in his short life it's that nothing good comes from persisting when his father is angry, furious. Murderous, even. He catches Derek's eye and shakes his head minutely then inclines it at the door, willing him to back off. He knows how to handle his Dad, but he doesn't know how to do it with Derek in the mix.

He can see that Derek gets it -- and god, doesn't that almost break him to see Derek so used to being treated like a threat -- even while he's obviously reluctant to leave Stiles alone. He visibly struggles with the decision, then the warmth of his hand trails away and he's just... gone.

For a long drawn-out minute, there's silence in the kitchen, then Stiles takes a tentative step towards his father.

"Dad, this isn't what you think it is," he tries.

"Oh really?" his Dad drawls, incredulous. "You mean I imagined you were about to have sex in my kitchen with Derek HALE?" The big veins on his neck are standing out by the time he gets to the last word, but at least he holsters his gun.

"Yes! Okay, well, no. It was definitely Derek, but no. No sex. Just, you know, other stuff. Kissing stuff. Maybe a bit of frottaaage." He doesn't do it on purpose, it's just -- it's the way he drawls it to Scott when they're mucking around and it just kind of slips out. He's _nervous_ goddamn it!

"You think this is a joke?" his Dad demands, furious.

"Sorry. Dad, I'm sorry." He puts up both hands, backs off a step. "No, not a joke. Uh uh, definitely not a joke." Jesus! He is SO blaming Scott for this.

There's a looong silence. Loaded silence. Fidgety silence, while he tries to think of something else to say that won't end in either him or Derek being strung up. But, nope, his brain is totally on strike as far as helpfulness goes.

"Stiles," his Dad finally sighs, and man, how does he do that, make his name sound like such a disappointment? "You're seventeen. Aside from anything else I might feel about Derek Hale, you know that legally---"

"What?" He can't believe it. Seriously? _That's_ where his father's mind is? "Oh my god, are you kidding?"

"Son, you can't just ignore the law when it's..." the Sheriff waves a hand in frustration, obviously searching for a word that he doesn't normally associate with his life's work, " ... inconvenient."

"Dad, DAD! Derek is a _werewolf_ and this is what you're hung up on?" That's -- seriously?

"Stiles---"

"No, no, really? The murder and mayhem, the psychotic Druid, the _kidnappings_? All pale into insignificance next to the fact that I don't have a freaking birthday until April? WEREWOLF, DAD!" 

"Yeah, well there aren't any laws against werewolves, but there are laws that prevent anyone taking advantage of you before you're eighteen, and there's a reason for that, damn it!"

"Dad, no. There's been no advantage taking, really. We're talking full and mutual consent, here. Derek's not--- He wouldn't---"

His father puts up a hand. "I don't want to hear about you having sex with a 23-year-old former fugitive."

"Dad, come on! The fugitive thing was a mistake and there hasn't even _been_ any sexing yet!" OMG, how are they even having this conversation?

"But you want there to be," his Dad states, and there's no hint of a question in there. Which is perfectly FINE, because no, there's no question anywhere. Sex is definitely on the agenda.

"Yes, YES! Because I could have been dead half a dozen times in the last year alone, and--- Holy mother of god, Dad, do you seriously want your only son to die a freaking virgin??"

"Alright, that's enough. Number one, there will be no dying, ever, not on my watch. Number two, you watch your mouth. And number three, no sex before you're eighteen. Especially---" he holds up a finger when Stiles opens his mouth to protest, "---not with Derek Hale!"

"Dad!"

"No! Son, how am I supposed to trust a man who shows such casual disregard for the law," his father asks, and really? If that's the sticking point then he has no idea how to argue it, not when he knows how his Dad feels about the law. So he says the only thing he can and hopes it's enough.

"Derek wouldn't hurt me, Dad. He wouldn't." He knows that with absolute certainty and he hopes his father can hear it in his voice. It's the one thing he IS sure about, despite the fact that everyone else seems determined to cast Derek as the villain. "Okay, I know that you don't know him very well, but you know me, and you should feel as though you can trust me to make good choices."

But his father shakes his head. "I'm sorry, son. I do trust you, and you're old enough now that I can't stop you from doing something if you're determined. But it's my job as your father to give you the best advice I can, and Derek Hale has trouble written all over him. I want you to stay away from him."

His father's face is set like steel and his body is tight and rigid in a way that Stiles knows is impossible to get around. He can normally divert him before he gets to the point of dig-his-heels-in-stubborn, but once he's there? Oh man, that's like trying to move a mountain. Up another mountain.

With a sinking feeling, he knows that there's nothing else he can say. He's played his best card and if the fact that HE trusts Derek isn't enough for his Dad, then he doesn't know what will be. They don't know enough about this connection thing for him to sound convincing under the cross-examination that's bound to follow if he brings it up, and arguing that being with the wolves makes him safer when the shit inevitably hits the fan is never going to work with his Dad in this frame of mind, even while Stiles knows, in his own heart, that it does. He can't bring himself to shatter his Dad's conviction that staying away from all things supernatural is all it will take to live a happily-ever-after life, either, not when he's still processing the actual concept of werewolves. Baby steps are good. 

Anyway, the whole point of wanting to tell his Dad about him and Derek was to stop him having to worry, not make him worry more. He's got enough on his plate already, dealing with general run-of-the-mill scumbags. Throwing in a "hey Dad, I'm mystically bound to this guy you want to shoot" is hardly going to help. They'll just have to find another way.

So, "okay," he manages to say, even if his voice does crack half way through the single word.

"Okay, what?" his Dad looks puzzled, obviously not expecting the victory. 

He takes in a deep breath, clenches his fists hard and feels his heart almost split in two. "I won't see Derek."


	4. Chapter 4

It's the worst idea he's ever had. Like EVER. 

That night he dreams that his mother dies all over again, with him watching from behind a barrier he can see through but not breach no matter how hard he flings himself against it. He wakes up in the dark feeling devastated, breath catching on a sob. He fumbles his phone under the blankets, shaking with reaction, and talks to Derek in whispers until he can breathe again. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers more than once, "so sorry," because misjudging the way his Dad would react affects Derek, too, and maybe they should have waited, planned more. Getting caught in the kitchen feeling each other up was a stupid, stupid thing to do and he wants to cry with sheer frustration.

But Derek calms him, murmurs back soothing words of comfort and understanding. Confirms that he's okay, and that Stiles only has to ask and he'll be there in a heartbeat.

"We'll work it out," Derek promises when Stiles explains what his Dad's major objection is, and hearing his quiet certainty is such a relief that he finally manages to take a proper breath past the tight band around his chest. "Whatever this thing between us is, it has nothing to do with age. Once we work out what's going on, your Dad will come around. We'll make sure of it."

It's not enough but it's better than nothing. After he hangs up, he curls himself protectively around the small spark that's all he can still feel of his connection to Derek and holds on.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The next day he crawls out of bed at dawn and goes for a run. The pavement is hard and unforgiving but he can't bring himself to run the softer trails of the forest. It feels too much like Derek in there and he knows that if he opens that door even a crack, he'll be through it in a heartbeat.

His rhythm is punishing and it's not long before his heart is pounding in time with his feet and he's breathing hard. The other early morning runners don't pay him much attention. He'd normally offer a nod or a smile as he passes, but today he doesn't have the heart for it. The enormous ache that fills the gap where Derek ought to be is too big and raw to let anyone else even that close. 

Unfortunately, running isn't enough of a distraction to stop him from dwelling on the situation the way he hoped it would. When he thinks about it, he doesn't understand why this separation is affecting him so much when it's only been two days since he started to think of Derek as vital to his existence. But that's probably the thing -- the connection is still there, but it has nowhere to go; he feels like a power cell building up pressure without any kind of an outlet.

He's back in time to make breakfast for him and his Dad and it hurts that they eat in a heavy silence that feels like judgment. When his Dad clears his throat and puts on his most serious face, he stands abruptly and says, "Dad, I'm going to Scott's today," willing him not to say anything more. If he has to promise, again, that he won't see Derek, it will probably break something that he'll never put back together. 

His Dad just stares at him, looking devastated, then he launches out of his chair and pulls him into a tight hug. 

"Stiles---" he begins, then breaks off and just holds on instead. It's awkward, nothing like their usual hugs, and a bitter sadness wells up in his chest, almost choking him.

"It's okay, Dad," he manages, tears pricking his eyes, because staying away from Derek hurts, and the fact that it's _his choice_ is messing with his head. And he knows it is a choice -- no matter what his Dad says, he would never use the law to hurt Stiles even if he went to Derek right now. But that just makes it worse; being given this choice is no choice at all. It's more like having his heart torn in two. 

He's at Scott's by 8am and he's never been more grateful for his friend despite the bed hair and the dorky Scooby Doo pjs, because Scott listens while he paces and pours out the whole story, only asking a question here and there to try and understand, and then he wraps him up in a full body hug. 

"Dude," Scott whispers fiercely in his ear, completely without judgment, "whatever you need. We'll fix this." 

He has to bite his lip hard so that he doesn't cry all over Shaggy and Scooby because he just feels so bereft. He's caught between two impossible situations and he's not used to being so completely without ideas. God, why can't he think? 

He can't get past the fact that no matter what he does, someone will get hurt and as much as he never wants to hurt his Dad, being separated from Derek feels like one of his limbs has been torn off. He can't bear the idea of letting his Dad down but it's hard to see how anything could hurt more than this.

He holds on tight and concentrates on breathing, and if he imagines Derek's voice in his ear, coaching him through it, then that's no one's business but his.

 

~*~*~*~

 

He's talked to Derek half a dozen times by the time afternoon rolls around (he never agreed to them not talking), and even though he's no closer to deciding what his next step is, just knowing Derek's on the other end of the line helps. And while their connection is stretched thin, like a piece of wool spun fine, it's still solid and doesn't feel at risk.

He goes to his session with Deaton, even though it feels like a waste of time. Derek won't be there and 'exploring this thing with Derek' is kind of dependent on him being WITH DEREK. Duh. But it's at least _something_ , and if he doesn't keep moving, stay active, he'll probably sink like a shark and drown. 

Anyway, it turns out that without Derek nearby, overwhelming his senses, he can actually feel Deaton and Scott. So that's a plus, right? Yeah, no, he's still missing Derek something fierce.

Deaton does spend some time explaining the theory behind magical rituals, though, and while it hurts his head (literally) to take it all in, it's kind of cool once he gets the gist.

"Certain words and phrases, or words spoken in a specific context, are considered to have magical power. Sometimes, much of the power of the words is vested in their secrecy," Deaton says. "Spells when used with established symbols, for example, construct a bridge that links the magical ritual to the known world."

"Okay, time out." He slides off the edge of the table making a 'T' with his hands. "That's so far over my head it might as well be the space shuttle. You want to back it up some, Doc? Maybe try speaking in English?"

"All right, how about I give you an example you're familiar with?" Deaton changes tack. "All that is required for magic to work, is for you to truly believe in its power, and cast it within a context that also believes. Take werewolves and mountain ash, for example -- the mountain ash is the symbol, the context is the society of the wolves, and the belief is yours. The result is that the wolf is unable to cross the mountain ash barrier once it is set."

"So, can it work in reverse, too? Like, if a werewolf, let's say Derek for example, believes that he can cross the barrier, will he be able to do it?"

"It's not necessarily that simple. For that to occur, the wolf's belief that he can break the barrier would need to be strong enough to counter your belief in forming it."

"But it is theoretically possible?"

"Yes. Scott already showed it can be done, but he is not as connected to werewolf lore as Derek is. The sheer weight of societal belief in the strength of the mountain ash barrier makes such a leap of faith almost impossible for a born wolf."

Right, so no-one ever said it would be easy, but it's definitely something they can experiment with. Maybe Derek wouldn't be able to do it alone, but now that the two of them are connected, it might work; all this power has to be good for something, right?

"Now," Deaton, says, dragging his attention back.

He hands Stiles a small book that he's never seen before. It's definitely old, the cover looks like some kind of skin that's gone shiny with handling, and when he flips it open he can see that the paper is old, the writing and illustrations somewhat faded.

"If I'm correct about the source of your power, then there is something you can do to help focus it, make it easier to control," Deaton says.

"Oh, hallelujah," he sighs, turning the pages carefully, because that has to be the best news he's had all day. 

"The book is old, as you've probably already guessed. Its source is unclear but the best information I have is that it's Eastern European in origin and that it belonged to a human spark. It details sigil magic and in particular the use of runes to focus energy." Stiles pauses on a page rich with patterns and illustrations of what look like mythical creatures. In some places there are rune shapes and other characters he doesn't recognize, but in others, the language looks like Latin.

"Okay, wow, that's--- don't suppose there's an English translation?" he asks hopefully because even with as much time as he's spent with Lydia poring over the Bestiary, he's no Latin whiz.

"No. As far as I know this is the only copy."

"Well, that's going to screw things up," he groans. Lydia won't be back from her vacation for three more weeks and while he's cool with remembering certain words and phrases, trying to tanslate Latin from scratch is worse than trying to decipher Finstock's study notes. And, besides, shouldn't they be past this whole give with one hand and slap-you-in-the-face-with-the-other thing by now? 

"Here," Deaton passes over another, much bigger, book. "This one is a more modern runic treatise that will provide an overview of the concepts. Even if you can't decipher the text in the older grimoire, you should be able to match the symbols. This one," he points to the old book, "will provide the most accurate representations of the key signs, without the historical interference that's bound to have crept into the newer volume."

"Huh. Okay, that makes sense, it's just like Star Trek." he nods.

"I beg your pardon?"

"C'mon, Doc, it happens all the time," he grins, thinking about Scott in his Scooby pajamas. "Some dude thinks he can remake an old classic, throws in a bunch of modern references, ends up making a complete hash of it. The only way to get all the information is to go back to the source." 

He takes the two books with him when he leaves. It takes a while to figure out how to marry the two sources, but once he does, he's hooked. He shifts to searching key terms on line at around three am, and by morning he's resolved to ask Deaton's help in making a set of protective runes. 

He doesn't get any sleep, but on the plus side, he doesn't have any nightmares to contend with, either. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Deaton tells him he should use objects that have meaning to him, that runes made from those will be most effective. 

So. 

_what has meaning to u_ , he texts Derek over breakfast, because if anyone thinks he's not making this protection work for the both of them, they're dreaming.

_What?_

He rolls his eyes and stabs at the keypad again. _meaning. 2 u? what?_

The pause draws out and he stops and thinks, realizes that Derek hasn't been party to his discoveries of the last twelve hours and will have no idea what he's talking about. The visual image he gets of Derek putting down his coffee and frowning in confusion at his phone is so strong that he freaks out for a second that he's developing actual psychic abilities.

But then he reminds himself that anyone who's known Derek more than five minutes would be able to pull up _that_ mental picture without too much trouble, and he calms down enough that the two word reply that pings back startles a delighted laugh out of him.

_You do_

Seriously, forget the supernatural horde headed their way; Derek Hale is going to be the death of him. 

_aw so sweet ya big sap but need a thing not a person. with meaning. to u_

The pause is longer this time and he finally realizes that asking that question out of the blue, when the person you're asking has pretty much lost every material thing with meaning in his life, is kind of a douche move.

He has his thumb hovering over the call button when the reply stops him in his tracks. 

_no things. just pack. home_

It's startlingly obvious that Derek would find meaning in pack and in the land, the place where his family has lived for generations -- his territory. Stiles feels like all kinds of a jerk for not having figured that out for himself because Derek told him in actual words that he came back because this is his home; that he came home because of _Stiles_. But his own obliviousness isn't as bad as the realization that the last time Stiles saw Derek, he made him _leave_. 

For a minute he can't breathe, the distance between the two of them hitting him like a physical pain. All he can see is Derek, alone, with no pack, no family, no anything, and Stiles let that happen. God! What the hell is he doing? It doesn't make any sense to keep hurting the both of them just because his Dad made a decision based on his idea of what's important, when he doesn't have all the information; when he doesn't _know_. The fact that he hasn't seen or touched Derek for two full days is suddenly more than he can bear, he wants to wrap himself around Derek and never let go.

He bites on the edge of his thumb and texts back a simple _thnx_ , then grabs up his backpack and heads out. It's all he can do to not round up the rest of the pack -- and his Dad, damn him -- and run over to Derek's on the spot, fill the loft with noise and laughter and the warmth of family until his Dad understands, and Derek never has to feel alone again. But acting without thinking is what got them into this mess in the first place and there's two things he knows with a growing sense of urgency. 

First, that the rune set is important and that to make it he needs something from Derek's territory. He thinks about the preserve and the Hale land that is bound by it; pictures the magnificent trees and rocky outcrops, the river that cuts through the northern boundary and winds its way to the south, and decides that the flat river stones that have been shaped and smoothed by the passage of decades of water flow will be perfect. They're from Derek's territory so they'll represent him, and if Stiles is the one who activates them, then they'll carry his power, too. 

Plus, water is supposed to contribute luck, so that ought to count double for objects that have actually been shaped by it, right? Well, that's the theory, anyway. 

Even better, there's a small tributary that runs along the southern border of the preserve that will help him with his second realization -- that he needs to see Derek, like, right-the-fuck-now. 

The spot he's thinking of is close to the loft so he can stop there on the way. He figures it won't take long. It's hardly even a detour. 

Yeah, right. Shows just how wrong a person can be.

 

~*~*~*~

 

At the end of the day, it's just plain stupid luck that he's carrying the silver knife Allison gave him the first time they had to deal with a Kludde without any of the wolves around.

So when the huge, red wolf-human THING appears out of nowhere and tries to take a bite out of his arm, he at least has a weapon, and sufficient wits about him to fight back. And the creature, THING, at least seems to be badly affected by silver if the way it squeals and runs, flesh smoking, when he stabs it in the shoulder is any indication.

"Fuck!" he swears while his body shakes in reaction and he watches the blood drip off the tips of his fingers. He doesn't think he's imagining the skin around the edge of the tear through his bicep going purple, so he goes with a hunch and slides the sharp edge of the knife into the middle of the wound, then watches, fascinated, as the skin shrivels and smokes around the blade. 

"Holy smoking flesh, Batman," he gasps as his legs collapse underneath him and his vision goes grey. Shit that hurts. 

He can't pass out though, not here, not with that thing still hanging around, so he turns the knife the other way, lays the blunt edge into the main part of the wound and does the best he can to pull the edges around it. Then he shrugs off his over-shirt and wraps the whole thing tight.

His life. Jesus!

Derek answers on the second ring and makes him stay on the line until he gets there. Which, okay, he is less than two miles from where Derek lives, but still, three and a half minutes is pretty goddamn impressive.

"Hey," he slurs from where he's slumped, back wedged into the hollow of the roots of an old tree, when Derek slides in beside him on his knees, looking pale and radiating frantic concern. 

"What the hell happened?" Derek demands, as he pries his fingers away from their death-grip on the hilt of the knife. It's not easy to let go, because his brain still hasn't caught up with the fact that he has backup now, and he's probably not going to need the knife for anything more offensive than just neutralizing whatever got into his arm. 

It's too much of an effort to answer, though, because he's really not feeling so good. Derek hauls him in close against his chest, one big, warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck. The distressed sound he makes in the back of his throat sounds like loss and fear and desperation all at once.

Stiles manages a shaky laugh and burrows his head in tight under Derek's chin because everything is spinning. It could be blood-loss, but it's more likely a result of the endorphin rush from finally getting his hands on Derek again after what feels like a _century_. 

"God, I missed you so much," he mumbles into Derek's collar, squeezing his eyes shut tight and clutching Derek's shirt with his still-functioning hand.

"You could have just said." Derek is obviously trying hard to sound flippant, but he's broadcasting pure anxiety and his hands are so, so careful as he checks the wound and reties the makeshift bandage. "No need to be so dramatic." Stiles shivers in reaction.

"Ha!" he gasps weakly, cradling his injured arm against his chest as Derek bends to lift him. It says something that he has no desire at all to assert his independence. "There was a thing. Great big ugly, red, hairy, beastie THING. I'm pretty sure it wanted to eat me."

"Lucky you're not so tasty, then." Derek says as he scoops him up. "Hold on till we get to Deaton?" 

"Yeah," he manages, and hopes Derek knows a shortcut.

Seriously, his LIFE.


	5. Chapter 5

It's while he's stretched out, shivering, on Deaton's veterinarian table that he has an epiphany. 

His arm is being packed with herbs and wrapped in a poultice, and Deaton made him drink some foul-tasting tea, so it's possibly more of a hallucination than anything, but still. Epiphany. 

This? This trying not to get eaten by the supernatural beast of the day? It's not a one-off thing that's going to just up and go away. It's an everyday thing; an inevitable 'this is my life now' thing, and no amount of avoidance, or playing by whatever arbitrary set of rules someone else has designated, is going to keep him, or anyone else for that matter, safe. 

The _only_ thing that will keep him safe is this -- being here, working with his friends, his pack. Learning as much as he can about this new power he and Derek have found, and trusting himself, because he -- Stiles-fucking-Stilinski -- is pretty damn badass at taking care of himself. He might not come out of every confrontation completely unscathed -- witness the state of his arm this very second -- but he's no shrinking violet, and apparently, he's pretty goddamn handy with a knife. He can only imagine what he and Derek might be able to do together if they can work this thing out and that has to be good for the pack, right? If he can contribute something that no one else can?

So he ought to be the one deciding what's good for him. His Dad is just doing the be-careful, stay-safe, parenting thing. He doesn't get the final say, and Stiles knows for a fact that his Dad is always going to want him to take a shot at what will make him happy. And Derek Hale, god help him, makes him ridiculously, stupidly happy. He was an idiot to ever agree to being apart from him, because that is SO not what he wants it isn't even in the ballpark of not wanting. Or is that wanting? Whatever. At least he knows what to tell his Dad now and--- OW, goddamn that stings!

The only good part of the whole ordeal is that Derek refuses to let go of him, which keeps their connection full open and humming. So in between the throwing up (which is truly gross) and the full-on body shudders, he winds up floating on a reconnected-after-three-days-of-separation high. 

"All right, I want to try something," Deaton says and Stiles rolls his eyes because seriously? Right now? Except that both Derek and Deaton are watching the skin around the poultice on his arm and when he takes a look himself, he can see the purple is spreading.

"Oh my god!" He panics and tries to sit up, although what the hell he thinks he's going to do is anyone's guess. He has a flashback to the day that Derek tried to convince him to cut off his arm and he's suddenly a whole lot more sympathetic to that idea.

"Calm down," Derek commands, and tightens his grip. And yeah, that's an easy thing for him to say when his arm isn't about to--- Oh! He takes a proper look at Derek's hand wrapped around his elbow and sees the veins standing out dark and pulsing. Right, so that explains the total lack-of-pain high.

He lets his head fall back and sucks in a tight breath, then lets it out slowly. 

"Okay," he manages through gritted teeth in Deaton's general direction. "What do you want to try?"

"Derek's power is able to draw out the pain, but he can't neutralize the poison. Your power, on the other hand, is definitely capable of healing. Do you remember the shapes of the runes Algiz and Sowilo?"

"Ahh, no. Not really?" What? There were a lot of runes and he only had one night to study. Maybe if he'd known he might need to save his own life he would have taken better notes.

"All right, watch." Deaton holds Stiles' good hand up in front of his eyes so he can see, then traces the patterns on his palm. "Algiz, for protection, with forks at the top, like an elk. Sowilo, the sun, for health and power to the life-force."

"May the force be with you," he mumbles, then he giggles because, hey, Star Wars jokes are always funny.

"Stiles!" Deaton snaps and then grabs hold of his chin and forces him to turn his head. "I need you to concentrate." If he tries really hard he can almost make the blurry eye in the middle of Deaton's forehead separate into two. 

"Sure," he agrees, because he can concentrate. He is the _King_ of concentration.

"All right. Again." Deaton traces the patterns once more. 

"Algiz," Stiles mumbles, watching Deaton's finger move. "Sowilo, the sun."

"Very good," Deaton nods. "Now you show me." 

Deaton holds out his own hand and Stiles traces the patterns onto his palm. "Algiz," he repeats. "Sowilo."

"Good. Now can you remember the healing spell I taught you when we were talking about focusing magic? I know you and Derek haven't had much time to work together, but this poison will need power to neutralize it and the two of you have that between you. If you can manage to control it then it should be possible to use the runes to focus the power from you both into healing." 

"Okay, wow. That actually makes a weird kind of sense," Stiles says, because it does. He's pretty sure he should be more shocked about that, actually.

Derek helps him sit with his legs dangling over the side of the table and then stands in front of him, anchoring him with hands at his hips when he feels like he might just pitch forward onto the floor. 

"How can I help?" Derek frowns.

"Um." His mouth doesn't seem to want to work properly and he twists it into what he hopes is a reassuring grin, because Derek is looking way too serious and that's just wrong. And anyway, there's no need to worry, because somehow he does know what to do and he's as certain as he's ever been about anything that it's going to work. "Just follow my lead. Deaton, give me the knife."

One theory he does remember from the rune book is that blood magnifies power, which is creepy as fuck, but if now isn't the perfect time to test it out, he doesn't know what is. So he nicks a small cut into the end of his finger and then uses the blood that wells up to trace the runes down his arm below the bite, from elbow to wrist in a repeating pattern, murmuring the words of the healing spell as he goes. "Fontes vitae lucisque, hic vos invoco. Corpus mentemque meam sanate."

He gestures at Derek. "C'mon, give me your hand."

Derek doesn't hesitate and oh man! When they join hands, palm to palm, it's like plugging himself into a power socket. 

"Hold still." He nicks a small cut into the top of the index finger of Derek's free hand, the one he's not clinging to. "Now you trace the same path, over the patterns, here. Picture your energy flowing into the runes and believe in its power to heal."

Derek watches him closely for a second, then nods and closes his eyes, which is quite possibly _the_ most distracting thing ever because Stiles' whole body seems to be swimming in endorphins and, good lord, Derek is beautiful the way his eyelashes paint dark shadows across the arches of his cheeks. 

Stiles can feel Derek gathering his energy, centering his power, and suddenly he's overwhelmed by a deep rush of affection unlike anything he's ever felt before because Derek, his amazing, wonderful, supernatural hero, trusts him completely, is putting everything he has into this; is willing to add his own fairly unbelievable power to that of Stiles to create something beautiful and incredible, something impossible to comprehend.

He watches Derek's finger trace the patterns all the way down his arm at an even pace, while Stiles murmurs the words of the incantation. He says the words quietly, almost under his breath, because he doesn't want to distract Derek from his belief. When the moving finger reaches their joined hands, he stops Derek and then traces each rune once, onto the back of Derek's hand. When he's done, he covers the newly drawn runes with his own hand and gestures for Derek to join all four of their hands together.

He closes his eyes and shuts out the sounds of the room, turns his focus completely inwards. It's up to him, now, to activate the runes. Until he does, they're just a series of patterns decorating his arm and the back of Derek's hand. He concentrates, reaches for the spark and pushes; forcing his power to the surface. Then he channels it the way Deaton's been teaching him, down his arm and towards Derek through their joined hands. He can feel the reassuring warmth of Derek's power waiting, and he tugs it forward, visualizing the rune shapes as anchor points.

"Stiles." Derek's quiet gasp resonates in his head as the warmth of their joined power flows smoothly up his arm. 

It's amazingly effortless. Derek's power comes to him as if they've done this countless times, and maybe they have, he thinks with a sense of wonder. There's something completely ageless and primeval about the ease of their connection that defies any logical explanation. He looks up and seeks out Derek's eyes. They're blazing a brilliant blue, and god, he could just fall right into them. The power between them surges and he tears his eyes away to see that the runes are glowing as if lit from within. It feels amazing, powerful, magical. 

He keeps going, channeling the power all the way up his arm until it reaches the bite, then he holds it there and repeats the incantation one more time, pushing every ounce of belief he has into the words: "Corpus mentemque meam sanate."

He barely gets the last word out before his power and Derek's twine together and then surge forward, and then there's a bright flash of heat at the bite.

He gasps, and there's a moment of complete and utter silence and then room starts to spin. He clutches hard at Derek's hand but it's too late, his vision is tunneling and his head is pounding so hard it feels like it might explode.

He thinks he might hear Derek shout his name just before he crumples forward and everything goes black.

 

~*~*~*~

 

"What the hell do you mean 'he cast a spell and then passed out'?"

Oh, man. It would actually be funny hearing that sentence come out of his father's mouth if it didn't herald the advent of all kinds of grief.

"Dad," he mumbles. It's hard work to force his eyelids up, he's just so exhausted it feels as though his bones have melted. "Dad!"

"Stiles!" His father's face swims into view at about the same time as the steel band around his chest tightens and he realizes he's actually on the floor of the clinic, although also half in and half out of what feels like Derek's lap, if the determined strength of the arm around him is any indication. He tries to sit up straighter but his arms feel like noodles and his head is kind of swimming--- Which is when he finally remembers pitching forward into Derek's chest the minute the spell was finished. 

Oops. Probably not the best note to finish on. Although, he did actually finish so that has to count for something. He struggles up straighter and blinks his arm into focus and wow, the skin is pink and raw looking, and the outline of the gash is still visible, but it's definitely more than three quarters healed. And, best thing of all? No sign of anything purple. 

"Do you see that?" He holds his arm up for inspection, feeling a ridiculous amount of pride, because hello? Magical healing-spell-casting for the win! "Take that, evil red flesh-eating man beast!" 

He feels Derek huff out a strained laugh behind him so he half turns, grin widening when he sees the stupidly fond expression spreading over Derek's face.

"You are unbelievable." Derek shakes his head and raises one eyebrow in a familiar oh-my-god-you-cause-me-no-end-of-grief, fashion, which just makes Stiles smile even wider because, aside from the exhaustion, his arm really does feel fine and this, what they've just done, has to be the coolest thing ever. 

"I know! But you have to admit, that was pretty amazing. Just imagine what we'll be like when we actually know what we're doing!"

"Will someone _please_ tell me what the hell is going on?" His Dad's voice comes from somewhere over his left shoulder, and Derek's eyes flick briefly in that direction and he shrugs with his eyebrows, clearly indicating there's a whole other problem over there just waiting. Which, yeah, okay, it probably is up to him to soothe the savage father-figure. Still, at least his Dad doesn't have his Sheriff voice on, so that's something. Not a lot, but something. 

He's tired enough that he could sleep for a month, but at least he doesn't feel as though he'll pass out if he sits up. So he does, and is exceedingly grateful when Derek moves and follows him and makes sure he has a solid chest to lean against.

"It's not that I'm not happy to see you or anything, Dad, but what are you doing here?" he tries, while he thinks about how to reply.

He checks out Deaton, and Scott -- who has somehow magically appeared -- trying to work out which one of them looks guilty enough to have been the one who let the cat out of the bag with his Dad. But wait, Scott had basketball practice this morning so he shouldn't be at work for hours, yet and--- 

"Just how long was I out for?"

"Too long," Derek growls behind him at the same time as Scott says: "Nearly two hours, man, I thought you were _never_ going to wake up!"

Ok-aay. That explains the general level of anxiety in the room, and the fact that his ass feels like someone filled it with memory foam. His Dad even gets a pass because he'd be worried too if he knew he'd been out that long.

"Are you okay?" His Dad asks and he definitely doesn't look happy, although it's maybe more worry than annoyance, at least.

"I'm fine, Dad, really. But what about you, how come you're here?" He's lost all track of time, but he's not that confused. Even if he's been out two hours, his Dad should be still be on shift, and he is wearing his uniform, so---

"One of the Rangers made a report that seemed like it might involve something a little -- unnatural. So I thought I'd see if Deaton knew anything." His eyes narrow accusingly. "Now, I'm wondering if maybe you can help me out with it, instead."

Ooops. At least this is all easier now that his Dad knows about the supernatural stuff. Well, some of it at least. "Ah, well, Dad. You know I always try to be helpful, and if you're talking about a weird red hairy man-beast thing that seems to have a penchant for eating humans, kind of yay-big, then yes. Definitely. Very able to help."

"Stiles---" his Dad warns, and yep, there it is again, that what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this tone. But it's all a front; he can see that his Dad is really concerned. The fact that Stiles is still relying on the floor, and Derek's very solid body, for support probably isn't helping.

"Look, Dad, we're fine. Things were a bit weird for a while there, but it's all cool now. Derek pretty much swooped in and saved the day and I know you're going to have questions about that, but can we maybe save it till we get home? You know, after we deal with the beastie-thing?"

"We?" his Dad repeats, frowning. There's no way he's missed the very protective way Derek is wound around him.

"Well, you, us--" Stiles waves his arm vaguely around the room because he figures the more people involved, the less his Dad will freak out, "--'we'."

"And just how are 'we' going to do that?"

Ah, yeah. And isn't that always the question of the day, only this time he has no answer because his head still feels like someone stuffed it full of cotton. 

Derek moves and clears his throat, and his chest rumbles reassuringly against Stiles' back. "I can probably help with that," he says. "Isaac's already tracking it, but from the description Stiles gave, it sounds like an Adlet that's come a little far south. If that's right, then it's only interested in humans and Scott and Isaac should have no trouble dealing with it. But if you can keep everyone out of the preserve until morning, that will help."

His father considers that and then nods, reluctantly. "Okay, well as much as I don't like leaving this to two teenagers to deal with, I can see that you," he waves vaguely between Derek and Scott, "might be better equipped than my team." 

Stiles is just thinking he's maybe home free when his father frowns and gestures between the two of them. "What about the 'you two' part of this 'we' my son was talking about?" he asks Derek.

"Stiles will sit this one out," Derek says firmly, and okay, maybe they have all been planning while he was out cold but he still gets a say. He has his mouth open to assert that he can look after himself, thank you very much, and really, it's about time someone other than him figured that out. But the arm around him tightens in warning and then Derek continues smoothly, "and considering the way he took care of himself first time round, I don't think there's much chance it will risk coming back for a second go, so you should be fine to go back to work."

All right, that's more like it. He nods at his Dad and grins, but his father folds his arms stubbornly and for a minute he looks like he's going to dig in his heels. Then Derek says quietly: "I'll take good care of him, sir," and his father just -- deflates.

"All right," he finally agrees, then rallies and points an accusing finger at the pair of them. Stiles refuses to squirm, but it's a near thing. "But don't think I've forgotten that you made me a promise that seems to be operating a little outside its parameters right now. I'm working a double so I'll be at the station all night, but I'll expect to see you both for breakfast. And whatever the story is, it better be good."

 

~*~*~*~

 

It doesn't take long to come up with a plan for Scott and Isaac because Adlets, apparently, aren't all that bright. Which, you know, doesn't make him feel all that good about being almost eaten by one. 

His Dad insists on dropping them off at the house -- as punishment or something, the silent drive there with Derek in the front and him in the back is something he doesn't want to repeat, ever -- but even though the silence is painful, at least his Dad refrains from demanding he and Derek stay away from each other. He's a little surprised, but he probably shouldn't be. His Dad is a smart man.

Then finally they're inside and the door is locked and, somehow, he winds up plastered against Derek's chest.

"You scared me today," Derek murmurs, arms wrapped around him tight, and it feels like so much shelter and protection that he may never want to move. He's not admitting it to anyone, but he kind of scared himself, too. 

"I hope you're not planning on going anywhere," he mumbles into the crook of Derek's neck, eventually, after he's shuffled as close as he can get without climbing inside Derek's skin, "because I'm not letting go. Just so you know."

Derek huffs out a strained laugh and presses a kiss to the side of his head, arms tightening. "Okay," he murmurs, "not leaving." 

They stand there for long minutes, just breathing the same air, and he can't help rubbing his face back and forth gently across Derek's neck just so he can enjoy the rough scrape of stubble across the side of his face and God, this is definitely in the running for the perfect end to a shitty day. 

After a while, Derek stirs and asks: "Do you need to eat something, or---"

"No, not hungry," Stiles interrupts, because touching Derek like this, being literally surrounded by him, he can feel their connection buzzing under his skin like an electrical current, ebbing and flowing and building with each breath, and his body feels charged. It's not food he wants now. 

He tilts his face up to see Derek watching him closely and he's out of reasons, out of words, just--- "I don't want to wait any more," he says, simply.

Derek's nostrils flare briefly. His eyes flash a bright, brilliant blue, and a low rumbling growl works its way up out of the back of his throat and shivers into the center of Stiles' chest. He has time to gasp in one breath before a flood of emotion surges across their connection, and then finally Derek's mouth is hot and hard on his. It's crazy good, Derek's desire feeding his, and back again, until he forgets to breathe, forgets to think, forgets everything. The connection opens up like a flower in the sun, and he stops trying to control it, just lets it blossom and expand unfettered.

"Derek," he begs into the hot skin at the corner of Derek's jaw. "Please."

Derek bends and the next thing he knows his legs are hitched up around Derek's waist and they're halfway up the stairs. He groans and buries his face in the side of Derek's neck because it's right there, and man-oh-man, he almost can't believe they're finally doing this right now. But then Derek's hand is in his hair, tugging his head back so he can seal their mouths together again and Stiles is lost. He pulls his thighs up higher and presses in tight against Derek's chest and abdomen because if he doesn't get some friction where it counts soon, he's going to explode.

"Come on, c'mon," he pants, working his hips unashamedly, while Derek supports his ass, then suddenly he's falling to land flat on his back on his own bed. He squawks, but it's okay, because Derek follows him down, crawling over him, tugging Stiles' shirt up, demanding "off, off", and who is he to get in the way of such a brilliant idea? 

"Okay," he gasps, batting Derek's hands away because he's pretty sure he's the most practiced at getting himself naked, and Derek has his own clothing situation to take care of. "You too," he demands as he wrestles his shirt up over his head. 

He gapes when Derek obligingly sits up and rips his own shirt off because oh, man, that's--- It's not like he hasn't seen Derek bare-chested before, but never like this, never just inches away and kneeling over him, bleeding emotion that's as raw and desperate as anything Stiles is feeling. 

He surges up and wraps one arm around Derek's back, then rubs his thumb over the dark nipple in front of him. Derek makes an amazing, low, wanting noise, so he leans forward and sucks it deep into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, and scraping his teeth lightly over the surface. The texture is firm and rough, and Derek tastes like earth and forest and the most delicious ambrosia. Then the realization that he's never actually had anyone else's nipple in his mouth before hits him right in the pit of his abdomen, sending everything vital flooding south. 

"Oh, god," he gasps and flops back onto the bed. "Pants, pants, pants," he chants, squeezing his eyes shut tight and fumbling at his own waist because if he doesn't get totally naked soon he's going to come in his actual pants, and he will NOT be a teenaged cliche.

But closing his eyes doesn't stop him feeling Derek stand up, and he still hears Derek's zipper slide, and all his confidence stalls as suddenly, having Derek here, naked, with him, is a thousand times more overwhelming that anything he's imagined in even his most detailed fantasies. He shivers and his hands slow, even his traitorous dick starts to flag, but just when the stupid over-thinking part of his brain is kicking in, the bed dips again and Derek's warm, solid hands settle over his own.

"You're not going all virginal on me now, are you?" Derek rumbles.

"What? No!" Stiles squawks, indignant. His eyes fly open, and god, he feels like a child the way his face heats with embarrassment. Only to find Derek, naked as the day he was born, hovering over him with a teasing grin.

"You fucker," he swears and punches the nearest bicep. Derek's grin widens and he catches hold of both Stiles' hands, pins them on either side of his head.

"You want me to romance you, instead?" Derek teases, leaning down for a gentle, almost chaste kiss.

"Dude! Yes! C'mon -- first time, here!" he states, emphatically, freeing one hand to gesture down the length of his own body.

Derek's eyes sweep over him, lingering at the taut skin of his abdomen, then he nods and reaches for the waist of Stiles' pants. "Okay, new rule," he says, pulling both pants and boxers down in one smooth slide, undressing Stiles as casually as if this is something they do every day. "No calling me 'dude' when we're having sex." 

Stiles squirms and his heart skips up a gear because that makes it sound like this is something they're going to do all the time. He kicks his feet so that his shoes and socks come off too, and then he's totally 100% naked. With Derek Hale. His face start to heat again but then Derek crawls up the bed next to him, and pulls him over until he's arranged three-quarters over Derek's broad chest. And yep, he's definitely on-board with the man-handling thing; he wouldn't object to spending a significant amount of his time being arranged just-so over Derek's solid body. His naked, solid body.

He tucks his face into the side of Derek's neck and just breathes, because his heart is going a mile a minute and slowing down is good. He'd thought he was getting used to the intensity of his connection to Derek, but he clearly hadn't factored sex into the equation because, yeah, sex changes things, like everyone told him it would. Right now every inch of skin where they're touching feels charged, especially, the skin around his waist where one of Derek's big hands is holding him close, and the long sweep of his back where the other is slowly stroking up and down. 

"What are you thinking?" Derek murmurs, his hand coming up to tease at the short hairs at the back of Stiles' neck.

"Well, apparently terms of endearment are important, so I was thinking that if 'dude' doesn't work for you I'm going to have to come up with something else," he says, trying to think of anything other than the fact that his dick is currently pressed against Derek's naked hip. Although, okay, that's apparently something his _dick_ is very interested in. He shifts his hips experimentally and discovers the hard jut of bone is pretty fucking awesome for friction. "Maybe you'd rather sweetums, or how about babycakes, snookums, honeybun?" he gasps as his dick really starts to get with the plan.

"God, stop already," Derek groans, but he obligingly moves his hips so that Stiles has more to rub against and, oh yeah, how did Derek know that's exactly what he needs?

He leans back a bit and runs his hand up Derek's chest, swirling his fingers through wiry hairs that curl and spring back as his fingers pass. Derek has surprisingly little chest hair for someone who spends a lot of his life furry. He's also being amazingly tolerant of first-time nerves; he just lies still and lets Stiles explore. And huh, that's--- Stiles is a little blind-sided by the huge well of affection he feels at just how gentle Derek is being. 

He hauls himself up and spreads his thighs so that he's straddling Derek's waist, feeling less like his heart is going to explode if they actually do this, then runs both hands over the muscles of Derek's chest and up to hold his face. He grins and smoothes his thumbs across Derek's ridiculously high cheekbones. "I think you're pretty okay," he says, sincerely. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather do the first time thing with."

"Yeah?" Derek grins back, and man, he's beautiful when he smiles like that. It's like being bathed in the brilliance of a three-hundred-billion mega-watt sun.

"Yeah," Stiles confirms and then he leans down deliberately, and brings their mouths together in a long, breathtaking kiss. 

Derek groans, or maybe that's him, and his brain stops working because suddenly he needs Derek's hand or mouth or something on him right-the-fuck now. He flops down onto Derek's chest which is, seriously, almost as broad as a highway, and the minute he's flat, Derek grips him hard at shoulder and hip, and rolls them both.

"Come on," Derek says, intently, stroking his hand down Stiles' chest and abdomen. "Like this." 

He watches as Derek's hand moves lower, and so he sees as well as feels it when Derek wraps one big hand around his dick. All the air punches out of his chest because, oh my fucking god, Derek's hand is on his dick. He throws his head back, letting out a long groan that would be embarrassing if he wasn't so completely and utterly smitten. 

Derek just rumbles out a laugh when his hips jerk forward, and then he strokes him firmly. The dry friction is almost too much but then Derek pauses, licks a stripe up the palm of his hand, and oh yeah, that's better. He looks down again so he can watch his dick slide through the circle of Derek's fist. 

"Oh, god." He pushes forward, to meet every slide of Derek's hand, because it just feels so goddamn _good_. "Just warning you," he pants, "this is going to be over really really REALLY fast."

His heart is going crazy in his chest and every nerve ending he has might as well be singing, he feels so goddamn fantastic. God, he never ever could have imagined sex could be so amazing! Derek makes a choked noise, then tilts his chin up and kisses him hard, pushing him all the way onto his back, tongue pushing deep into Stiles' mouth at the same time as he strokes his dick hard again and again and again until Stiles is coming, his whole body shuddering and jerking. 

He shivers as the pleasure rolls over him in waves, vaguely registering that even his toes are twitching, and when Derek pulls away from his mouth to bury his face in the side of Stiles' neck, he holds on tight and tilts his head back to give him space to do whatever the hell he wants. 

For a few minutes he thinks Derek is just licking and sucking a random pattern down his neck, and then he starts to worry at the skin with his teeth, and Stiles just knows that he's marking a pattern over the moles that dot his neck and trail all the way down from his jaw to his collarbone. Just thinking about being marked like that makes his blood heat hot enough that it's a wonder he doesn't combust.

"Give me your hand," Derek says and oh!, they're not done yet! Stiles obediently flaps his hand forward, and Derek makes a big enough space between them that he can wrap both their hands around his hard dick. 

"Watch," he insists, as he moves their hands firmly up and down, and Stiles does. He's still high from his own orgasm, but he's also mesmerized by the feel of Derek, the soft silky skin over harder flesh, the way the head of Derek's dick appears at the top of the ring of his fingers and then disappears again. He can feel Derek's urgency mounting and he tightens his grip, reveling in the way Derek's hips jerk almost involuntarily, and the way he throws his head back and moans a gut-deep growl. He's so focused on keeping his fist tight under Derek's that he's surprised when the flesh beneath his hand pulses and Derek comes in powerful stripes over his abdomen and chest.

"Dude, that's amazing," he murmurs, awed. Because it is, so so SO amazing.

He watches as Derek comes down, still gently holding his softening dick, and then he twitches, because he's not sure what to do with the jizz all over his hand. But maybe Derek can read his mind, or something, because he lifts both their hands to his mouth, eyes locked with Stiles, and licks his fingers clean. He can't help the way his mouth gapes open, but Derek just grins, leans in and kisses him messily, then flops back and hauls Stiles up into what is rapidly becoming his favorite place in the entire universe -- draped over Derek's chest.

He wriggles until his shoulder is comfortably wedged into Derek's armpit and closes his eyes, because he's so blissed out he couldn't move if his life depended on it. Apparently everyone who knows anything about anything wasn't lying about post-orgasmic lassitude and hey, that's him now -- pre-orgasmic, post-orgasmic, orgasmic-orgasmic -- he huffs out a pleased laugh.

Derek just wraps more tightly around him, and murmurs: "You're exhausted. Go to sleep." 

So he does.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It's dark when he wakes, although he's relaxed enough that it feels early rather than late, so it's probably morning. He can't see his clock from where he's lying, either, and who the hell even knows where his phone is, so he just lies still and tries to forget about even caring what time it is.

The truth is, he doesn't actually care, because he's warm and he feels like he's slept for a month -- no nightmares, yay! -- and Derek is wrapped around him; which, he's coming to realize, is the best way in the world to sleep. Being the little spoon has a lot to recommend it, he thinks, grinning, especially when both spoons are naked.

But he's awake now, and being still is not one of his special talents, so it doesn't matter that there's nowhere else he'd rather be or that he really should let Derek sleep, he inevitably gets to the point that if he doesn't move he's going to explode. He wriggles his hips experimentally and the arm around him tightens. 

"Stop that," Derek rumbles against his back. "Your Dad will be home in less than an hour and I'm not getting caught having sex with you again if he's early."

"Dude!" he exclaims, twisting around to see Derek smiling at him in the semi-dark. "I thought you were asleep, I was trying not to wake you up!"

Derek just grins wider and leans down to kiss him and, hello! That's no way to not have sex in the morning. He presses in closer because his dick is definitely awake now and pushes his tongue experimentally into Derek's mouth. He's kidding about the no morning sex thing, right?

But no, Derek pulls back and nips his bottom lip reprovingly. "What did I say about not calling me dude?"

"You said not during sex," Stiles shoots back, shoving Derek onto his back and clambering up on top of him. "And then you said we're not having sex this morning," he grins, then leans down and smacks a kiss right onto Derek's mouth. "Make up your mind, _dude_."

"Oh, really?" Derek's eyebrows shoot up and Stiles has one second to think _oops, maybe this was a mistake_ , before Derek flips them over and then he's flat on his back, looking up at Derek's 'you want to think twice before you poke at the savage beast' face.

"Ahhh, maybe?" he manages, before Derek's mouth crashes down on his, and he's suddenly dizzy with want. God, he loves Derek so much right now he feels like his heart might just burst right out of his chest with the strength of it.

Derek slows the kiss down, gentling it until it's more affection than anything else, and when Stiles blinks his eyes open, it's to find Derek staring at him intently. 

"Are you sure you're okay with all this?" Derek asks and smoothes his thumb carefully over the ridge of Stiles' cheekbone and down the side of his neck. "You're not sorry?" 

What, really? Does he seriously think Stiles is ever going to be fooled by that neutral, blank face ever again? When he can _feel_ the intensity of Derek's need?

He lifts one hand up and runs it around the side of Derek's face and over the top of his head to the back of his neck, petting him the way he's seen Cora do countless times. Then he leans up and kisses him hard. 

"I need you to put that right out of your head, like, forever. I don't know why this happened, but I'm not sorry," he whispers, fiercely. "I am _never_ going to be sorry."

Derek makes a small, vulnerable sound and for a second Stiles could swear he sees a flare of red in his eyes, but then Derek buries his face against the side of his neck and all he cares about is holding on as tight as he can.


	6. Epilogue

"Dad, this is not your normal boy-meets-boy, boy-falls-for boy scenario. Trust me."

They're all around the table, making dents in the very large breakfast Derek and Stiles made together to try and get the conversation off to a good start. It might be cliche, but it's not the first time he has successfully wriggled his way into his father's heart via his stomach.

And he knows there's a lot of wriggling to do here, because although his Dad arrived home at his normal time -- thankfully, there were no more supernatural incidents to deal with overnight -- there was no mistaking the hard stare he directed at Derek. Or the questioning frown that resulted when he noticed Stiles wearing the one and only polo-neck he owns. And yeah, he's just going to have to live with that because serving up breakfast with Derek's marks visible all over his neck would be SO much worse than suffering his father's judgment for his clothing choices. 

And now it's show time, and he's nervous because he loves his Dad, and he really desperately wants him to be okay with this.

"Okay, you remember I told you about the mountain ash thing?" 

"Uh, huh. Magic, right?" his Dad says, calmly, as he forks some scrambled egg into his mouth. 

Okay, tough audience.

"Yes! Magic! Ten points to you, Dad," he grins trying to lighten the mood. "Well, this is the same. Just, you know, bigger. And with a partner. Kind of like dancing, I guess. Anyway, there's this connection thing. Magical connection---"

"That you can't resist."

"Yes! Right again. Gotta hand it to you Dad, you catch on quick."

"Stiles---" His Dad puts his fork down deliberately, and sits back in his chair.

"No, Dad! Come on, would I make up something this crazy?"

"Well, I seem to remember a story about a magical clown, once."

"Dad! I was six years old."

His father just raises his eyebrows.

"Dad!" he protests. "You are not implying what I think you're implying."

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek says quietly, and Stiles spins around because, other than to politely greet his father, that's the first time Derek's spoken. And _that_ would be because they'd agreed he'd leave the talking to Stiles unless things started to go south. 

But when Stiles makes a 'shut up idiot, I've got this' face at him, Derek just shakes his head slightly, picks up Stiles' hand and tugs it until he slides over closer. He's not quite sure what Derek's intention is, but he effectively puts the both of them on one side of the table, and Stiles' Dad on the other.

"Sir," Derek begins, then he pauses and looks Stiles' father in the eye. "Do you know how amazing your son is?"

Stiles feels his mouth gape open in surprise, but his father doesn't hesitate. "Well, son, I've been his father for almost 18 years so I think I have a pretty good idea, yes."

Almost 18? Not 17? Stiles holds his breath because maybe that means something.

Derek just nods but he seems to choose his next words carefully. "This is not something either of us chose to happen, but I'm not sorry. What Stiles can do now is incredible and I'm proud that I can help him with that."

Derek's deep sincerity is tangible across their connection, and Stiles feels his throat close up with emotion. He squeezes Derek's hand hard.

"I never wanted to be the alpha," Derek continues. "That power wasn't ever meant to come to me and until now, nothing good ever came of it. But if it was my power that did this, that let Stiles realize his full potential, then I'll never regret that."

Stiles shuts his mouth firmly, his chest swelling with pride, because underneath that hard uncompromising exterior, Derek Hale has an incredible heart.

"Dad," he says, turning to his father. "What happened yesterday was my fault because I wasn't paying attention and if it wasn't for Derek, well, let's just say it could have been messy. Very messy. And this is all new, and we're still working things out, but Dad -- yesterday, with Derek's help, I actually healed my own injury, and that is the most incredibly cool thing I've ever done in my life. And it's only going to get easier. I'll keep working with Derek, and with Deaton, and we'll get better at it. I just know we will."

"Deaton?" his father queries. "Is that where you've been spending all your time?"

"Ah, yeah, some of it," he admits, feeling guilty that he kept his Dad out of the loop. "It started out just as a follow up to what happened before summer break, with the Nemeton and all. At first it was just interesting, you know? And the more I knew, the more Deaton taught me and it was like the most fascinating research project ever. And then Derek came home and we just -- connected, somehow, and suddenly I found out I have this amazing talent. It's magic, Dad, real magic. I mean, how cool is that?" By the time he finishes, even his Dad is smiling.

"It's pretty cool," he says, and Stiles heart skips happily because he can feel his father coming around.

"I know! But Dad, I need Derek, and he needs me, and we're good together. We really are. He's a good person, Dad, honest, and I really, really need you to be okay with this," he knows he's pleading by the time he gets to the end but he doesn't care, he wants his Dad to know how much this means to him.

His father looks from one to the other of them for long moments, and Stiles is almost beside himself with the need to move, to do something, say _something_ to convince his Dad, but Derek squeezes his hand again and okay, yes sure, maybe Derek can still read people a little better than he does, so he shuts up, stays still, and lets his Dad think it through.

Finally, his Dad stands and takes his plate to the sink without saying anything, and Stiles feels as though he might die with anticipation. He jiggles his knee until Derek frowns him into stillness, and he waits and waits and oh god, the silence is freaking _killing_ him!

Eventually, his father turns around and glares at the both of them. "All right," he says. "I can't say I'm happy about this, but I can see that the two of you haven't exactly had a choice about it either. And, to be honest, I can't see how making everything even more difficult is going to help anyone."

Stiles feels his mouth fall open again, because does that mean what he thinks it means?

"So," his Dad continues, "yes you can see each other," he points a finger at them both, "but you be careful and you make sure you respect each other, and that no-one does anything they don't want to." That last one is directed solely at Derek. "And I want to see Derek here for dinner at least once a week."

"Dad!" Stiles leaps to his feet and throws his arms around his father, his heart overflowing with affection. "You're the best!" God, winning the lottery would not feel this good! He turns back to Derek, grin so wide it hurts.

"Thank you, sir. I promise you won't regret this." Derek says, respectfully, and nods at his father.

And okay, that's enough; this is starting to feel like the exchange of prize livestock between warring tribes. 

"Come on." He pulls Derek out of his chair. "We're going shopping."

"What for?" Derek asks, smiling at him, and if those aren't great big fond hearts in his eyes, Stiles has never seen them.

"A TV," he grins, bouncing. "If I'm hanging out at your place now, you need some decent electronics."

Derek smiles wider, his eyes crinkling, and when he follows, his hand is warm and sure in Stiles', the connection a steady hum between them, just the way it should be.

 

\--the end--

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translation of Stiles' healing incantation:**  
>  "Fontes vitae lucisque, hic vos invoco. Corpus mentemque meam sanate." -- Sources of Life and Light, I invoke you here. Heal my body and mind.
> 
>  **Title quote:** John Muir's quote is often summarized to the one used, or something similar, although there are several versions of what his original words might have been. I like this one the best: _"When we try to pick out anything by itself we find that it is bound fast, by a thousand invisible cords that cannot be broken, to everything in the universe."_ That's the way I see Derek and Stiles in this story - bound together by a thousand invisible cords.


End file.
